GIFT  or 


CU'.s  4  Hoh 


FERN  SEED 


BOOKS  BY 
HENRY  M.  RIDEOUT 

Fern  Seed 

The  Foot-Path  Way 
Tin  Cowrie  Dass 
The  Far  Cry 
Key  of  the  Fields 

and  BoLDERO 
The  Siamese  Cat 
White  Tiger 

William  Jones 


FERN  SEED 


By 

HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
NUFFIELD  AND  COMPANT  ^ 


)1 


0 


To 
The  Rev.  HENRY  HOWITT 

Dear  Parson  : — 

For  a  lover  of  great  books,  you  have 
always  shown  remarkable  indulgence 
toward  little  ones.  This,  therefore,  is 
dedicated  to  you.  If  you  detect  any  wild- 
nesses  in  it,  please  blame  them  on  the 
gentleman  who  told  corrupting  tales  of 
how  the  devil  flew  over  Boston  Stump. 
And  please  let  it  remind  you  of  evenings 
beside  the  fire,  and  of  a  friend  among  so 
many  others  of  yours  in  more  than  one 
land,  more  than  one  generation. 

H.  M.  R. 


^51SiO 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosQft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fernseedOOriderich 


FERN  SEED 


FERN  SEED 


I 


Afternoon  sun  beat  down  on  the  quays  of 
Alexandria,  making  the  air  boil  and  dance  along 
stone-work,  above  dock  water,  among  masts  and 
funnels.  A  crowd  waiting  under  the  sun  found 
it  hot.  Leonard  Corsant,  after  some  years  in 
the  Far  East,  cared  little  for  this  heat  of  Egypt; 
he  had  known  worse ;  but  now  he  felt  impatient  to 
go  aboard,  get  out  into  good  sea  breeze  once 
more,  and  continue  his  journey.  He  was  going 
home  to  America. 

Through  her  window  in  the  little  sentry-box 
office,  a  girl  passed  him  his  papers,  and  smiled. 
She  was  dark,  pretty,  and  much  more  his  friend 
than  the  occasion  demanded. 

**Again,  sir!  Ah,  we  always  lose  you  I*'  she 
mourned,  in  excellent  French. 

Leonard  returned  her  smile,  as  he  took  her  pen. 
He  had  a  good-humored  face,  sunburnt,  careless, 

3 


4  PERN    SEED 

with  a  hawk  nose  of  rather  determined  cut  and 
easy  bright  blue  eyes;  lifting  his  hat,  he  bared  a 
crop-head  of  close  fair  curls.  He  was  no  ladies* 
man,  to  speak  of;  they  did  not  bother  him  often; 
and  while  he  read  her  printed  slip  he  thought  this 
one  must  be  of  those  who  reveal  tenderness 
when  a  ship  casts  off  or  a  train  rolls  out.  They 
were  not  in  his  line  of  life. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  but  see  here,  mademoiselle," 
he  objected,  "I  can't  sign." 

There  was  plague  in  Alexandria.  The  officers 
of  public  health  were  anxious.  Their  paper  which 
the  girl  had  given  him,  said,  in  French : 

"I  declare  upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman  that 
I  have  no  soiled  linen  in  my  baggages." 

She  looked  at  him  coyly  through  the  grating. 

"Oh,  it  is  a  form,  sir." 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  sign  your  form,"  said  Leonard. 
"I  have  some  in  my  baggages.  A  shirt  and  so  on, 
after  bathing  just  now.  Pardon.  But  this  holy 
document  raises  a  point  of  honor." 

The  girl  laughed,  snatched  it  from  his  hand, 
snatched  the  pen  also,  and  wrote. 

"There.  I  have  signed,"  she  cried.  "On  my 
head  be  all  the  perjury." 

Leonard  seldom  forgot  a  face,  and  hers  was 
too  pretty  to  be  forgotten;  he  had  never  seen 


FERN    SEED  5 

her  before;  yet  the  name  she  wrote,  blotted,  and 
held  up  gaily  for  approval,  was  correct. 

*'L.  Corsant." 

The  signature  might  almost  have  been  his  own; 
and  beneath  it  she  had  drawn  a  paraph  that  no  one 
could  have  guessed, — a  flourish  which  as  a  little 
boy  he  had  copied  from  his  father's  writing.  A 
pot-hook  run  through  a  bulFs-head,  his  father 
called  it:  a  family  joke,  meaningless.  He  stared 
at  this  copy,  then  at  her. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  know?" 

She  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  monsieur,  how  should  I  forget?  You 
are  not  in  the  vein  of  compliment  this  afternoon. 
But  me,  I  will  say  you  look  much  better  and  more 
brown.  Now  go,  please.  I  am  busy.  You  pre- 
tend I  forget  you,  when  you  always  block  the  way 
standing  on  your  punctilio." 

The  dark  young  minx  waved  him  farewell,  and 
rolled  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  the  sort  called  rav- 
ishing. Leonard  passed  on.  The  queue  of  sweat- 
ing Europeans  behind  him — Holy  Land  tourists, 
who  wore  mosquito  veils  draped  voluptuously 
round  ferocious  helmets — began  in  fact  to 
grumble,  push,  and  use  unholy  outlandish  words. 

"Well,  at  last!"  he  thought,  following  his  por- 
ters up  the  Rubattino  gangway.     "There's  an 


6  FERN    SEED 

Egyptian  mystery  for  you,  black  magic.  It's  come 
too  late,  of  course." 

He  soon  forgot  this  riddle.  A  very  fat  Italian 
woman,  dressed  magnificently,  helped  him  to  for- 
get, by  waving  her  farewells  to  someone  on  board, 
and  falling  between  quay  and  ship.  Blue-gowned 
Arabs  calmly  hauled  her  out  with  ropes, — one 
yelling  mass  of  rage  and  terror,  crowned  with 
muddy  cascades  from  what  had  been  her  Paris 
bonnet.  The  poor  lady  became  a  source  of  art- 
less glee.  Crew  and  longshoremen  cast  off  mer- 
rily. Veiled  pilgrims  from  the  Holy  Land  were 
still  enjoying  the  memory  of  her  misfortune,  and 
chuckling,  long  after  Pharos  and  Pharallon  had 
sunk  in  the  horizon. 

Leonard  found  the  voyage  a  disappointment. 
After  the  hot,  dreamy  azure  of  the  Red  Sea, 
Mediterranean  water  seemed  dark,  bleak,  and 
chilly.  Across  this  old  route  of  the  Roman  grain- 
ships  came  biting  winds,  like  those  loosed  on  the 
Trojan  fleet, — his  former  schoolbook  enemies, 
Eurus,  Notus,  Africus  all  together,  more  fresh  air 
than  he  had  bargained  for.  Aquilo  or  something 
worse  blew  from  the  Adriatic  mouth,  when  all 
hands  took  to  the  smoking-room  and  shivered. 
Below  in  the  doctor's  cabin  he  enjoyed  the  com- 
pany of  a  third-class  passenger,  an  old  Ncstorian 


FERN    SEED  7 

monk,  whom  he  treated  to  Gragnano  and  Flor 
de  Dindigul,  and  who  treated  him  to  many  hours 
of  profitable  talk. 

Naples  drew  near  from  the  sea  one  morning 
early  as  a  cold  amphitheatre  of  whited  villas.  Its 
welcome  took  the  form  of  a  printed  order,  dis- 
tributed with  care  by  men  in  uniform,  command- 
ing every  stranger  to  report  himself  daily  for  ten 
days. 

"I  haven't  any  plague,"  said  Corsant.  "Be 
hanged  if  they  keep  me  down  here  to  freeze.'* 

His  friend  the  monk  smiled. 

"Your  blood  has  grown  thin  in  the  tropics. 
Not  so  thin  as  mine.  Helas,  beaux  jours  perdus! 
— Go  then,  my  boy,  in  God's  name.  But  do  not 
leave  them  your  next  address." 

Leonard  took  this  good  counsel,  carried  the 
old  man  off  for  forty-eight  hours  of  happy  moon- 
ing through  Pompeii,  shook  hands,  parted,  and 
climbed  into  a  north-bound  train.  He  was  now 
quite  alone  in  the  world,  with  time  to  waste  and 
nothing  to  do. 

During  some  years  of  hard  work,  he  had  cher- 
ished the  dream  of  another  Italian  holiday;  but 
now  that  it  came  true,  he  found  the  thing  less  free 
and  glorious  than  what  his  fancy  had  painted. 
Moving  from  one  set  of  obscure  lodgings  to  an- 


8  FERN    SEED 

other — to  make  his  money  go  as  far  as  possible — 
he  learned  that  bed  was  the  only  warm  place,  for 
him,  in  Italy.  But  then,  fleas  loved  this  haven  also. 
Thanks  to  a  Chinese  boy  in  Hong  Kong,  Leonard's 
only  great  coat  was  travelling  round  by  sea  to 
London.  He  made  light  of  such  trifles,  and  per- 
severed; yet  even  his  long  walks  by  day,  pilgrim- 
ages on  foot  to  the  most  lovely  sights,  became 
little  by  little  overcast  and  saddened.  He  had 
too  much  of  his  own  company,  was  always  cold. 

One  evening  in  Santa  Maria  Novella  he  sat 
as  long  as  he  could  sit  with  a  dark,  hushed,  humped 
little  crowd,  looking  out  from  mysterious  gloom 
to  where  the  altar  floated  in  a  haze  of  candlelight 
and  of  young  voices  singing.  The  contrast  moved 
him,  touched  him  within  like  an  allegory  of  our 
poor  human-kind.  He  would  have  stayed  there; 
but  the  mortal  chill  of  the  church  had  crept  into 
his  bones,  and  drove  him  away.  As  he  went 
quietly  out,  through  the  vast  empty  rear  of  the 
darkness,  a  man,  a  shadow  leaning  on  a  pillar, 
turned  to  look  at  him.  Leonard  caught  only  a 
passing  impression  that  the  movement  was  quick 
and  stiff.    He  thought  no  more  of  it. 

"Well?  To  bed  with  the  fleas  again?"  he  asked 
himself,  outdoors.  "No,  by  gum.  This  is  bad. 
A  real  go  of  the  waggles  I" 


FERN    SEED  9 

His  body  shook,  his  teeth  chattered.  Slapping 
himself  like  a  teamster,  he  crossed  the  piazza  by 
starlight,  and  hurried  down  a  narrow  street,  to 
find  some  refuge,  osteria,  trattoria,  wine-shop  or 
eatlng-den,  whatever  might  first  appear.  For  some 
time  he  found  nothing.  The  way  was  empty,  dark, 
a  rift  among  mediaeval  shadows.  When  at  last 
a  pair  of  windows  gave  light,  ahead,  their  panes 
all  steamy  with  warmth  inside,  he  turned  toward 
them,  opened  the  door  between,  and  entered. 

It  was  a  dingy  little  old  restaurant,  a  narrow 
room  which  in  those  days  before  the  war  ran 
through  cat-a-corner  from  Sword  Street  to  Sun 
Street.  A  dingy  little  old  waiter  leaned  against 
the  wall  as  though  put  there  and  abandoned  like 
a  worn-out  umbrella.  If  alive,  he  was  the  only 
living  creature  to  be  seen.  Leonard  had  chosen  a 
table  nearest  the  source  of  heat — a  cavern-mouth 
that  breathed  out  greasy  kitchen  odors — and  had 
settled  himself  on  a  bench,  before  the  old  solitary 
moved  or  so  much  as  blinked. 

"Good  evening,'*  said  Leonard.  "Something 
hot,  if  you  please." 

The  waiter  slowly  detached  his  back  from  the 
wall,  and  came  forward  mumbling  excuses: 

"The  cook  has  gone  home  in  rage,  sir.  A 
maledicted  cook,  who  made  asseverations   .    .    ." 


lo  FERNSEED 

Then,  as  he  became  aware  that  his  guest  sat  shud- 
dering, his  aged  eyes  grew  bright,  shrewd,  kindly. 
He  stopped  his  apology,  to  cry  one  compassionate 
word:     'Treddor 

With  that  he  darted  into  the  kitchen,  made  a 
great  clatter,  and  quickly  burst  again  from  the 
darkness,  running  with  a  tumbler,  a  black  bottle, 
and  a  copper  kettle  that  steamed. 

"Prompt  and  intelligent  cuss,'*  quoth  Leonard. 
In  more  polite  phrases,  he  begged  the  man  to  get 
another  tumbler  and  share  his  toddy. 

"Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  kind,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
could  not  think  of  doing  so." 

The  poor  old  chap  was  both  surprised  and 
frightened.  Leonard  had  an  easy  way  with  him, 
however,  and  soon  the  pair  were  hobnobbing  over 
Gorgonzola  verde  and  a  good  round  loaf  of  bread. 
Chills  vanished,  likewise  formality.  The  talk 
passed  from  weather  and  hard  times  to  politics, 
then  to  warfare  and  memories;  for  this  dried  little 
ancient  with  his  nut-cracker  face  and  beady  eyes, 
had  tramped  as  a  boy  soldier  of  Garibaldi's,  and 
plainly  a  good  one.  With  all  the  shop  to  them- 
selves, they  took  their  ease,  found  each  other  ex- 
cellent company,  and  held  a  humble  revel. 

"You  like  that  story,  sir?" 


FERN    SEED  ii 

"I  do,  I  do  I"  cried  Corsant,  leaning  back  and 
wiping  his  eyes.     "But  it  hurts  to  laugh  so.'* 

*'Then,  sir,  I  will  tell  you  a  yet  more  comical. 
At  Orte  were  three  sisters   ..." 

Just  then  the  Sword  Street  door  quietly  opened. 
A  man  came  in. 

The  laughing  veteran  sprang  up,  drew  away, 
and  as  though  by  a  trick  on  the  stage,  faded  shriv- 
elling back  into  a  sad  old  waiter. 

He  who  caused  this  transformation  paid  it  no 
heed,  but  stepped  down  into  the  room  and  looked 
about  scornfully.  He  was  a  lusty  blond  young 
man,  handsome  after  a  fashion  which,  thought 
Leonard,  was  too  professionally  male.  His  Eng- 
lish clothes  fitted  him  too  well,  tighter  than  need 
be,  and  set  off  a  muscular  body  powerful  enough 
for  an  athlete's,  but  not  loose  enough. 

*'Good  evening  to  you,"  he  said  in  English. 

Leonard  returned  the  wish. 

The  stranger  paused  by  Leonard's  table.  He 
was  smiling,  but  his  eyes  remained  too  pale  and 
cold. 

"We  always  meet  in  odd  places,  don't  we?" 
He  spoke  affably.  His  bass  voice  came  from  the 
throat  and  seemed  to  roughen  It.  "I  shouldn't 
quite  think  you'd  care  for  this,  though.  There  are 
plenty  of  good  beer-halls.'* 
\ 


12  FERN    SEED 

Corsant,  when  ruffled,  had  a  sleepy  way  of  look- 
ing at  you.  When  angry — as  a  friend  of  his  ex- 
pressed it — his  face  died.  Now  he  looked  no 
more  than  sleepy. 

"It  does  well  enough,  thanks,"  he  said.  "I 
can't  recall  any  other  places  where  we  had  the 
pleasure?" 

*'0h,  just  as  you  like.'*  The  stranger  laughed. 
Then,  having  turned  to  see  that  the  servant  was 
beyond  ear-shot,  he  laughed  again,  and  bent  across 
the  table.  "I  do  not  scrape  friendship.  But 
we're  off  duty,  eh?  One  good  turn  deserves  an- 
other, and  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know  that 
they  are  after  you." 

Leonard  had  forgotten  all  plagues  of  Egypt 
and  all  quarantine  documents.  Now  he  remem- 
bered. This  warning  seemed  freely  enough  given, 
and  probably  true ;  still  he  did  not  like  the  giver, 
or  the  accompanying  sneer  of  condescension. 

"Oh.  Much  obliged,"  said  he.  "Let  'em 
come." 

The  light-colored  eyes  flashed  down  at  him  bale- 
fully. 

"Good.  We  are  even.  I  leave  you  to-— your 
friend." 

Removing  his  hat  stiffly,  the  man  swung  round, 
marched  rather  than  walked  past  the  waiter — 


FERN    SEED  13 

whom  he  Ignored  as  from  a  height — and  so  went 
out  by  the  other  door  into  the  darkness  of  Sun 
Street. 

''Whowashe,  Gino?" 

The  waiter  thawed,  became  human  again,  and 
flung  off  a  most  inimitable  farewell  with  his  hands. 

"Ah,  that  brute!  Ah,  that  white-eyed  vassal! 
I  nev^er  saw  him  before,  sir." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Leonard. 

He  was  not  so  sure;  that  stiff  wheel,  and  turn 
of  the  back  all  in  a  piece,  reminded  him  how  some- 
one had  watched  him  go  out  of  church. 

"For  all  his  garments  and  his  altitude,"  said 
Gino,  grinning,  "he  behaved  as  one  in  a  hurry. 
No  repose.  Why  fluster  so  grandly?  Why  should 
one  hurry,  sir?  The  man  cannot  consume  the 
time,  no:  the  time  consumes  the  man." 

Corsant  agreed. 

"You  speak  like  Horatlus  Flaccus.  Have  we 
any  more  hot  water?  If  so,  the  evening  Is  young. 
— Come,  sit  down,  and  let  us  finish  that  yarn  of 
the  Three  Sisters." 


II 


Being  a  young  man  who  took  things  as  they 
happened,  and  like  John  Silver  "kept  company 
very  easy,"  Leonard  soon  forgot  these  adventures 
in  travel.  Nothing  came  of  them,  except  a  long 
illness  after  his  chill.  He  spent  some  weeks  abed 
in  France — dreary  weeks,  exceeding  lonesome — 
and  reached  England  later  as  a  pale,  thin  con- 
valescent, hollow  about  the  eyes  and  tottery  on 
the  legs. 

To  get  well,  he  made  straight  for  the  country. 
More  than  once  in  childhood  his  father  had  told 
him  if  ever  he  should  visit  England,  he  must  go 
search  out  a  little  old  village  near  the  sea. 

"Our  people  came  from  there,  or  close  by,"  his 
father  had  said.  "We^U  have  to  see  the  Devil's 
Nose  together,  and  pass  through  it  for  luck,  my 
boy.  We  need  to  freshen  ours.  A  couple  of  cen- 
turies gone,  I  daresay,  since  one  of  us  did  it. 
Some  day  we'll  go  there  on  pilgrimage." 

These  dark  sayings  took  a  child's  fancy  at  the 
14 


FERN    SEED  15 

moment,  lay  in  the  same  storeroom  with  other 
memories,  bits  of  old  tales,  fairy  books,  things 
imagined,  or  facts  mysterious  because  half  under- 
stood, and  so  to  the  young  man  had  sometimes  a 
trace  of  their  faded  color  and  fragrance.  Leonard 
had  made  of  his  father  a  legendary  hero,  power- 
ful, gentle,  with  dark  blue  twinkling  eyes, — a 
form  surrounded  by  the  bright  mist  of  early  adora- 
tion. They  two  had  never  gone  on  any  pilgrim- 
age. But  as  a  grown  man,  without  living  kindred, 
he  had  once  or  twice  vaguely  meant  to  do,  some 
day,  what  his  father  proposed;  if  only  as  a  pagan 
rite,  the  pleasing  of  a  shade.  Always  before  in 
England  he  had  been  kept  too  busy. 

"A  sick  man,"  he  thought,  "has  no  right  to 
bother  his  friends.  So  now's  a  good  time.  The 
little  old  place,  whatever  it's  like,  duller  the  better, 
will  do  for  ^loungin'  round  and  sufferin'.'  The  inn 
is  called  Merle's,  I  see.  Wire  for  a  room,  and 
ask  to  be  met.  We'll  go  down;  as  father  said, 
for  luck." 

He  went,  therefore,  alone.  The  month  was 
May,  the  journey  an  afternoon  dream  of  green 
fields  gliding  past,  lovely  to  a  sick  man's  eyes,  and 
to  his  mind  one  drowsy  comfort  that  promised  the 
return  of  health.  Towards  evening,  at  a  tiny 
station  under  a  hawthorn  hedge,  he  stepped  from 


i6  FERN    SEED 

his  compartment  into  a  brisk  yet  mild  air  smelling 
of  green  grass  and  the  sea,  and  a  light  that  spread 
as  from  vast  distances  unconfined  yet  softly  tem- 
pered and  brooding. 

An  old  man  peered  at  his  face,  nodded  without 
a  word,  and  taking  his  kit-bag,  led  him  behind  the 
hedge,  where  stood  a  shaggy  moorlandish  pony  in 
a  cart.  Leonard  climbed  slowly  to  a  seat;  the 
old  man  hopped  up  nimbly;  the  pony  jumped  and 
started  off  trotting  with  wild  and  fitful  ardor. 

Up-hill,  down-hill,  by  roads  or  lanes  always 
deep-sunken  between  hedge-banks,  they  jogged 
rattling.  Now  and  again,  side-wise  through  the 
gate  of  a  field,  or  forward  from  some  height, 
Corsant  caught  brief  glimpses  of  the  landscape: 
rolling  hills  all  patchworked  in  great  squares,  rich 
green,  pale  green,  bright  red,  and  where  young 
wheat  had  but  started,  faint  rose-and-green  as 
changeable  as  taffeta.  But  chiefly  the  way  wound 
along  in  secret,  hidden  by  wild-flower  banks  and 
hedges,  a  dusky  tunnel  under  the  trees. 

In  one  of  its  darkest  hollows,  the  driver  halted 
his  pony. 

He  said  nothing,  but  sat  and  waited.  Corsant 
did  the  same.    A  minute  or  two  passed  thus. 

On  their  right  hand,  the  tangle  of  thorns  and 
beech  was  broken:  two  stone  pillars,  with  chains 


FERN    SEED  17 

hanging  between  them,  stood  in  a  gap,  through 
which  Leonard  saw  garden  borders,  shrubs,  and 
deeper  within,  half  hidden,  the  windows  of  a  dark 
stone  house.  The  place  seemed  empty  and 
neglected.     Red  valerian  ran  wild  there. 

'Well?'*  said  he  at  last. 

Turning,  he  caught  the  driver's  eye  for  the 
first  time,  and  only  for  an  instant.  There  was 
an  odd  look  in  it :  something  like  respect,  sympathy 
even,  mixed  with  shrewd  understanding. 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  the  old  man.  "The  chains 
are  locked,  sir." 

"Oh?    Is  this  the  inn?" 

A  quick  side-glance,  that  began  to  be  a  stare, 
was  the  driver's  answer.  Then  he  corrected 
himself,  and  sat  as  before,  watching  the  pony's 
ears. 

"You  wish  to  go  to  the  inn  first,  then,  sir?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir."  The  man  gathered  his  reins, 
and  drove  on.     "I  misunderstood,  sir." 

They  jogged  in  silence  down  a  hill  and  up  an- 
other, turned  left  at  a  cross-road,  turned  right 
where  many  lanes  met,  and  so  went  twisting 
through  a  green  labyrinth  where  twilight  fell.  At 
last,  about  lamp-lighting  time,  they  descended  a 
short  curving  street  lined  with  thatched  cottages, 


i8  FERN    SEED 

in  the  lower  end  of  which  their  pony  halted  with- 
out command.  Here  the  driver  hopped  out,  un- 
loaded Corsant's  bag,  and  guided  him  through  the 
gate  of  a  small  garden  to  a  lighted  doorway. 

Inside  the  house,  a  stout  old  woman  carrying 
a  lamp  greeted  him  kindly. 

*'Good  evening,  sir."  Her  voice  was  pleasant, 
her  florid  face  all  a  broad  smile  of  welcome. 
While  she  added  some  speech  about  dinner  and 
bed,~an  aged  white  bull-terrier  coasted  round  her 
skirts,  approached  In  purblind  fashion,  and  sniffed 
the  stranger's  legs. 

Afterward,  at  table,  she  stood  beaming  covertly 
on  him  as  he  ate. 

"Fm  sorry  my  husband  made  that  blunder,  sir,'* 
she  said.  '*It  was  a  pity  to  take  you  out  of  your 
way;  but  he  thought  you  might  wish  to  .  .  .  " 
She  stopped,  then  changing  and  picking  her  words 
carefully,  concluded: — "might  care  to  look  about 
you  a  bit." 

Being  drowsy  and  tired,  Corsant  answered  at 
random. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  Mrs.  Merle.''  He  stifled 
a  yawn.  "An  excellent  dinner.  I  foresee  this 
house  of  yours  is  the  place  for  a  man  to  get  well 
in." 


FERN    SEED  19 

"I  hope  so  indeed,  for  you,  sir,"  she  replied 
heartily.     **I  do  indeed,  I  assure  you." 

They  were  very  friendly  persons,  he  thought. 
Going  upstairs  early,  he  found  his  groom  of  the 
pony  was  now  groom  of  the  chamber,  for  by  pleas- 
ant candle  and  hearth  light,  old  Merle,  with  a 
brass  warming-pan,  stood  caressing  the  sheets  in 
a  vast  Pickwickian  bed.  This  ancient  seemed  as 
wiry  and  nimble,  but  silent,  indoors  as  out.  To 
a  mild  question  if  the  room  needed  so  much 
stoking,  he  listened  firmly,  replied  in  brief:  the 
night  air  was  poison,  sir;  and  so  took  his  leave, 
with  respectful  wishes.  "  *The  love  that  follows 
us  sometime  is  our  trouble,'  "  thought  Leonard; 
but  he  waited  till  the  old  man  went  downstairs  be- 
fore hauling  the  fire  apart  and  opening  his  win- 
dows. For  a  while  he  lay  watching  the  stars 
through  a  frame  of  dark  leaves  and  vines;  then, 
to  the  hushing  voice  of  the  sea  behind  some  hill, 
and  the  squeak  of  a  churn-owl  weaving  nocturnal 
spells  round  and  round  the  house,  he  fell  asleep 
greatly  contented  and  at  home. 

The  weeks  that  followed  made  his  content  all 
the  deeper.  When  rain  lashed  the  windows,  and 
the  elms  tossed,  and  hidden  seas  rumbled  in  the 
distance,  he  lounged  by  the  little  parlor  fire,  read- 
ing, smoking,  dozing  like  the  Fat  Boy  of  Dingley 


20  FERNSEED 

Dell;  while  the  old  white  bull-terrier  snored  on 
the  hearth,  a  coffin  of  a  clock  ticked  solemnly, 
blinking  its  brazen  eye  at  him,  and  a  bullfinch  in 
the  kitchen  piped  a  few  notes,  forlornly  sweet, 
during  the  pauses  of  the  wind.  He  was  the  one 
guest  there,  alone  like  a  single  passenger  at  sea. 
Mrs.  Merle  and  her  husband  he  seldom  encount- 
ered, for  they  not  only  took  care  that  no  one  else 
disturbed  him,  but  kept  themselves  remarkably 
out  of  the  way.  In  fine  weather — it  soon  turned 
fine — he  went  outdoors  so  early  and  returned  so 
late  that  of  the  village  people  he  saw,  as  it  hap- 
pened, little  or  nothing  but  a  face  here  and  there 
at  a  window.  His  first  walks  led  him  toward  the 
sea,  along  high  cliffs,  to  He  sheltered  by  the  dark 
spines  and  gold  of  gorse,  and  from  a  green  preci- 
pice edge  to  look  down  on  sparkling  water,  head- 
lands that  slanted  away  each  to  its  **parson  and 
clerk"  pair  of  outermost  crags,  and  far-curved 
surf,  white  streaks  that  seemed  motionless  in  the 
distance.  Mild  air  soothed  and  healed,  the  sun 
tanned  him  like  an  Indian. 

A  fortnight  of  this  life  saw  him  well.  He  began 
to  scour  the  country,  taking  walks  that  grew 
longer  and  longer,  setting  out  at  sunrise,  returning 
at  dusk,  with  a  stride  that  never  tired  any  more. 


FERN    SEED  21 

a  giant  appetite  for  Mrs.  Merle*s  gooseberries 
and  clotted  cream. 

One  noonday,  being  far  afield,  both  hungry 
and  thirsty,  he  entered  a  quiet  little  town  which 
sweltered  at  the  bottom  of  a  valley.  Its  thorough- 
fare was  empty  and  hot.  From  glaring  cobble- 
stones he  stepped  into  the  darkness  of  an  old 
coaching  inn,  the  White  Hart.  Here  a  dismal 
waiter  brought  him  cold  veal  pie,  strong  beer, 
sweating  cheese,  and  angrily  green  gherkins. 

"Haven't  you  any  .  .  .  lighter  trifle?"  asked 
Leonard. 

The  man  struggled  with  his  grief  awhile. 

"Fll  ascertain,  sir,*'  he  replied  without  hope. 
"It's  not  likely,  but  cook  mi^ht  have  made  trifle.'* 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  said  Corsant  in  haste. 
"These  will  do  very  well." 

In  that  close  heat,  they  were  formidable.  He 
made  the  best  of  it,  however,  and  attacked  them 
with  care.  The  room  was  cool,  though  mouldy. 
He  ate  alone,  but  through  a  glazed  partition  could 
look  into  the  aged  coffee-room,  where  two  persons 
sat  talking.  One  was  a  tall,  black-haired  man 
with  a  bass  voice ;  the  other,  hidden  by  his  broad 
shoulders,  a  girl. 

"No,  miss,  that  colt  was  a  chestnut  .  .  . 
You're  thinking  of  the  brown  filly   .    .    .   No,  an- 


22  FERNSEED 

other  trace  altogether  ...  At  Newbury  In  the 
eighties,  before  you  were  born   ..." 

"Why,  George,  what  are  you  saying?"  came 
the  girPs  voice.  "It's  not  often  one  catches  you 
in  the  wrong." 

"Not  on  that  point,  thank  you,  miss,"  replied 
the  bass,  quietly  stubborn.  "Now,  go  back  as  far 
as  Ormonde's  year   ..." 

The  girl  interrupted  again.  Leonard  caught 
only  a  few  of  their  words,  but  knew  that  they 
were  discussing  horses,  and  gathered  that  the  girl 
upheld  her  end  of  the  argument.  Some  wild 
country  tomboy,  he  thought;  a  type  which  he  had 
seen  before,  and  disliked:  loafing  in  a  dingy  bar, 
smoking  with  men,  talking  slang,  airing  her  world- 
liness. 

Presently  the  man  laughed  at  something,  and 
leaned  back.  Over  his  shoulder,  the  girPs  face 
appeared,  smiling.  It  was  not  at  all  the  face  of 
a  tomboy:  mischievous  Indeed  and  young,  but 
even  in  that  shadowy  den,  alight  with  intelligence. 
Her  eyes,  large  and  black,  were  looking  straight 
in  through  the  dusty  window-pane. 

"Why!    There " 

She  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  and  stood  for 
an  instant  leaning  forward,  her  face  wonderfully 
brightened,  her  lips  (Corsant  had  time  to  mark 


FERN    SEED  23 

what  a  clear  red  they  were)  parted  in  surprise. 
Next  moment  she  had  sat  down,  hidden  again  be- 
hind her  companion. 

"That  was  extraordinary  I  For  half  a  second, 
you  know,  I  thought   ..." 

The  rest  Corsant  did  not  hear.  But  the  man, 
who  had  neither  turned  nor  moved,  except  to 
glance  up  at  her,  presently  replied: 

"No.  He  won't  be  here  for  another  week,  miss. 
1*11  try  to  have  everything  ready  as  youM  like  it." 

**It  is  now,  George.  YouVe  quite  splendid," 
said  the  girPs  voice.     "I  was  and  am  delighted." 

Soon  afterward,  through  the  glass,  Leonard 
saw  them  rise  and  go,  the  tall  man  following 
her  with  unstudied  though  evident  respect.  She 
herself  was  fairly  tall;  both  were  slender;  and  in 
their  easy,  outdoor  way  of  moving  they  seemed 
vaguely  alike.  When  they  had  vanished,  a  clack 
of  hoofs  and  rattle  of  wheels  on  cobbles  passed 
down  the  street  and  left  it  sleeping. 

Leonard  continued  to  stun  his  appetite  with  the 
cold  leaden  pasty  and  discolored  cheese.  They 
seemed  worse  than  before. 

"Wonder  who  she  thought  I  was?"  He  mused 
at  the  dingy  window-panes,  as  if  behind  them 
something  of  her  brightness  lingered.  "Shouldn't 
mind  being  the  right  chap." 


24  FERN    SEED 

That  afternoon  he  walked  some  fifteen  miles 
more,  homeward  roundabout.  He  went  slowly, 
for  the  green  sunken  lanes  held  much  heat  and 
little  stir  of  air;  but  their  hedgerow  banks  impris- 
oned the  sight  only  to  enrich  it.  Wild  flowers — 
campion,  violets,  snitchwort,  herb  robert — filled 
the  grass  and  lined  both  sides  of  the  road  higher 
than  a  man's  head.  On  a  hilltop  he  paused,  to 
catch  the  draught  of  soft  sea  breeze  and  hear  a 
pair  of  skylarks. 

"She  was  mighty  pretty,"  he  thought;  and  be- 
coming aware  that  he  thought  so,  was  surprised 
at  his  own  irrelevance.  "What!  Running  in  my 
head,  is  she?    What  for?" 

He  went  on  down  hill.  These  walks  began  to 
be  tiresome. 

In  the  Pickwickian  bedroom  at  Mrs.  Merle's 
that  evening,  he  found  his  wash  had  come  home 
again.  Once  before  the  wrapping  had  been  writ- 
ten on:  "For  Lieutenant  Corsant";  now  the  in- 
scription ran — "For  Captain  Corsant,"  and  under 
the  twine  someone  had  stuck  a  nosegay  of  wall- 
flowers. 

"Going  up  in  the  world,"  thought  Leonard. 
"If  promotion  keeps  on,  they'll  have  me  the  Very 
pattern  of  a  modern  Major-General.'  " 


FERN    SEED  25 

He  put  the  wall-flowers  in  a  glass  of  water,  and 
stood  enjoying  their  fragrance. 

"Mighty  pretty/*  said  he.  "As  good  In  profile 
as  she  was  full  front." 


Ill 


Curved  gables  of  tawny-gray  thatch  across  the 
street,  tree-tops  behind  them  where  rooks  flut- 
tered and  cawed,  shut  off  all  view  of  the  river. 
To  see  it,  the  nearest  way  led  through  a  lane 
past  the  blacksmith's.  A  small  tidal  stream,  curv- 
ing between  two  broad  low  hills,  it  ran  deep  with 
the  ebb  and  bent  round  a  crag  Into  the  hidden  sea ; 
with  the  flood.  It  crept  up  shallow,  pale,  spreading 
inland  among  green  wooded  points  and  fields  whit- 
ened by  daisies. 

Young  flood  had  set  in,  grown  toward  half  tide, 
as  Corsant  went  down  the  lane. 

*'Good  morning,  sir,"  called  Peacock  the  black- 
smith from  his  cavern.  A  big,  swart  man,  he 
grinned,  and  saluted  with  his  hammer  between 
blows.     "Fine  day!" 

In  the  darkness  an  old  white  pony  stood  half 
asleep,  with  a  tool-box  under  his  heels.  Perched 
on  the  edge  of  the  water  tub,  a  long-legged  man 
sat  and  played  with  a  rasp,  brooded,  or  thought- 

26 


FERN    SEED  27 

fully  gosiped,  while  Peacock  bent  a  horseshoe, 
the  soft  red  iron  muffling  the  ring  of  his  anvil. 

"A  very  fine  day/'  said  Leonard. 

The  bitter  smell  of  burnt  hoofs  drifted  after 
him,  in  the  sunlight  and  hawthorn  shade.  A  wall 
crossed  the  foot  of  the  lane;  a  stile  mounted  the 
wall;  and  beyond  these  a  path  descended  green 
fields  to  the  river.  Near  the  stream  Leonard 
turned  and  looked  back  as  though  someone  called. 
No  one  had  made  a  sound;  but  far  up  hill  by  the 
blacksmith's  door  two  small  figures  stood  watch- 
ing him, — the  aproned  Peacock  and  his  taller 
gossip.  Though  distant,  they  had  somehow  the 
air  of  men  watching  long  and  sharply.  It  was 
not  Peacock,  but  the  other,  who  raised  one  arm 
overhead  and  waved  a  genial  flourish. 

"Strangers  in  these  parts,"  thought  Leonard, 
"must  be  a  rare  sight." 

He  answered  the  flourish,  turned,  and  struck 
into  another  footpath  which  rambled  along  the 
river  bank.  Passing  behind  a  screen  of  branches, 
he  caught  his  last  glimpse  of  village  and  lane. 
The  two  little  figures  remained  there  still,  watch- 
ing him  go  out  of  sight. 

"This  IS  a  good  time,"  he  reflected  lazily,  "to 
try  father's  project.  We'll  walk  through  the 
thirles,  and  freshen  our  family  luck.'* 


28  FERN    SEED 

But  the  sea,  when  he  climbed  round  its  barrier 
crag  at  the  river  mouth,  did  not  favor  this  plan. 
The  lonely  curve  of  yellow  sand  was  narrowed, 
as  if  drawn  taut,  by  incoming  tide ;  a  great  azure 
pool,  fordable,  yet  holding  infinitely  deep  reflec- 
tions of  summer  cloud,  poured  smooth  across  it 
into  the  river;  and  though  everywhere  alongshore 
the  water  line  lapped  nearer  in  tiny  waves  that 
glittered  and  sank  almost  foamless,  white-caps 
were  bursting  round  the  rocks  beyond.  A  hun- 
dred yards  out,  black,  ugly,  pierced  by  two  fan- 
tastic arches,  towered  the  Devil's  Nose. 

"No  walking  through  that  for  a  while." 

The  dark  surf-worn  pinnacle  stood  ringed  with 
spray,  which  gleamed  as  it  came  surging  through 
the  two  holes,  veiled  their  shadows  half-way  up, 
fell,  and  spouted  landward  into  sunlight  again. 
The  rock  sneered  at  this  peaceful  shore,  thought 
Leonard,  like  a  reminder  of  evil  fury  hidden  and 
disguised. 

"You  might  swim  through  it."  Basking  on 
warm  sand,  he  dallied  with  the  notion.  "Why 
not?    Rather  fun." 

No  breath  of  air  stirred,  but  the  waves  in  the 
thirles  maintained  a  hissing  roar,  continuous,  like 
winds  tearing  through  a  forest.  The  longer  he 
heard,  the  less  he  liked  it. 


FERNSEED  29 

"Well,  by  George!"  He  sat  up,  angry. 
*' Where's  your  nerve  gone?  Turning  Invalidical, 
eh?    We'll  see  about  that!" 

The  beach  was  then,  as  on  all  his  former  visits, 
deserted.  He  pulled  off  his  clothes,  and  ran  down 
naked  into  the  sea. 

"Here  goes  for  luck." 

After  his  first  plunge,  the  water  seemed  glori- 
ous. He  shot  forth  into  a  region  of  fresh  life, 
with  body  and  mind  rejoicing,  the  world  growing 
young  to  eyesight  cleared  by  sea  magic.  A  good 
swimmer,  Corsant  put  his  power  into  a  few 
strokes,  found  it  all  there  again  ready  at  call,  and 
then  went  romping  forward,  burying  his  face  for 
mere  wantonness,  and  staring  down  through  the 
cool  green  void  where  sunshine  faded  into  quiv- 
ering mist  and  network  shadows.  A  cold  streak 
suddenly  checked  this  play.  He  roused,  and 
glanced  ahead.  It  was  not  a  streak:  he  had  left 
the  tempered  surface  water  behind,  and  now  swam 
in  a  chill  ocean  current,  near  the  rock.  Green 
hollows  round  him  began  to  seethe  white. 

"Roughening  up  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Right.  Now 
we  come  to  the  pretty  part." 

Viewed  at  close  range  from  sea  level,  the  rock 
drew  aloft,  magnified  itself,  and  became  wonder- 
fully grim.     The  splintered  spire,  jagged  from 


30  FERN    SEED 

top  to  bottom  with  lumps  and  crockets;  the  two 
wild  arches  that  dripped,  yawned,  sucked  in  wave 
after  wave  to  fling  it  out  like  snow  and  thunder; 
the  base,  carved  by  ages  of  storm:  all  these  de- 
tails and  the  gloomy  color  gave  Corsant  a  strange 
uneasiness  while  he  gathered  himself  for  the  tussle 
and  steered  cautiously  into  the  foam.  No  wonder 
this  thing  bore  the  devil's  name.  It  resembled 
the  stump  of  some  gothic  ruin,  some  unholy  church 
blasted  and  driven  into  the  sea. 

"Well,  Old  Man,"  cried  the  swimmer,  "if  this 
is  your  belfry,  Vm  going  plumb  through  like  a 
bat." 

It  seemed  to  lurch  and  rush  toward  him,  roaring 
an  answer.  Leonard  chose  his  moment,  whirled 
into  the  right-hand  arch  on  a  retreating  slope, 
was  deafened  with  bestial  throaty  noises,  dove  un- 
der the  next  wave,  and  came  up  treading  water 
in  the  sunlight.  He  caught  breath,  shook  the  brine 
from  his  eyes,  and  saw  looming  above  him  the  sea- 
ward front  of  the  rock,  uglier  than  Its  back.  He 
had  performed  half  his  journey;  but  that  swift, 
violent  passage  had  beaten  out  of  him  all  the 
fun,  all  the  high  spirits,  all  desire  to  boast.  He 
dreaded  the  return.  Those  booming,  wallowing 
holes  were  loathsome. 

"Get  it  over  with." 


FERN    SEED  31 

A  ridge  of  surf  slapped  him  across  the  face, 
left  him  blind,  choking;  and  even  while  he  fought 
for  air  and  light,  another  ridge  heaved  him  up, 
coiled  round  him,  and  flung  him  sidelong.  As 
through  green  glass  that  suddenly  blew  up  into 
lather,  the  central  column  of  the  rock  rushed  by- 
like  a  prow.  It  grazed  his  left  side.  Then  came 
darkness,  a  prolonged  hissing,  the  cough  and  spew 
of  a  glutted  abyss.  In  which  malignant  forces 
mauled  him,  churned  him  round  and  round;  and 
then  a  hollow  crash,  with  a  flare  of  soft  light  in- 
side his  head. 

"Busted  I" 

How  long  he  remained  half  stunned,  Corsant 
never  knew.  He  must  have  gone  on  swimming, 
for  he  woke  to  find  his  limbs  in  motion,  the  water 
still  and  warm,  the  shore  not  far  away.  Water, 
sands,  hill-tops,  and  sky  reeled  in  a  colorless  glare. 
His  skull  ached. 

"Wah  I  Sounded  like  the  sea-serpent  gargling !" 

He  crawled  up  the  beach,  to  lie  by  his  clothes. 
Forty  winks  and  a  sunbath  would  restore  him. 
As  the  pain  gradually  left  his  head,  he  dozed  and 
began  to  smile. 

"Wonder  what  dad  would  think  of  that  per- 
formance?— WeVe  been  through,  anyhow.    First 


32  FERN    SEED 

time  in  a  couple  of  hundred  years.  Did  our  part. 
Now  bring  on  your  good  fortune." 

Sitting  up,  no  worse  but  for  a  lump  over  one 
ear,  Corsant  grinned  at  the  DeviPs  Nose.  It 
looked  quite  harmless  and  romantic,  refined  by 
distance.  The  foam  in  the  thirles  murmured  like 
a  summer  breeze. 

"Oh,  yes,  very  sweet,  my  friend.  Playing  the 
Cathedrale  Engloiitie,  aren't  you?  No  go,  no 
can  do.  You're  an  old  Gargling  Gargoyle,  and 
a  fraud.    Now  bring  on  your  luck." 

While  thus  engaged  with  fancies,  he  became 
aware  that  he  was  not  alone  on  the  beach. 

To  his  right  near  the  inward-flowing  river,  a 
tall  man  led  a  white  pony  down  to  wade.  They 
had  come  from  Peacock's,  of  course:  he  watched 
them  idly.  The  man,  stooping,  bared  his  feet 
and  rolled  his  trousers  above  the  knee.  Somehow 
the  movements  were  very  smart,  very  trim. 

"Must  be  a  sailor,"  thought  Leonard. 

The  pony,  having  no  use  for  sea  water,  began  to 
fight  and  cavort.  With  the  same  neatness,  quick, 
devoid  of  effort,  his  leader  had  him  in  belly-deep. 

"No.    Must  be  a  groom." 

Man  and  beast  waded  together  along  the  shal- 
lows, their  figures — black  and  slender,  white  and 
chunky — in  sharp  relief  against  rippling  sunshine. 


FERNSEED  33 

Leonard  gazed  after  them  dreamily,  and  when 
they  came  ashore,  sat  watching  the  reflection  of 
their  legs  appear  and  vanish  with  each  wave,  now 
mirrored  in  a  glaze  of  sky-blue,  now  lost  on  dark 
sand. 

He  had  fallen  half  asleep,  when  footsteps 
trampled  near  by. 

"Well,  sir,'*  called  a  voice,  "I  see  you  went 
withershins !" 

It  was  a  deep,  rich  voice,  carrying  like  a  good 
actor's. 

Leonard  sat  up  again — quickly,  for  it  was  the 
same  voice  that  had  talked  horses  with  the  girl 
at  the  White  Hart. 

"Went  where?"  he  said,  blinking. 

The  tall  man  stood  before  him,  holding  the 
white  pony  with  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  his 
boots  tied  together,  crammed  full  of  stockings. 

"Withershins.  Contrary  to  the  sun."  He 
laughed,  and  swung  his  footgear  toward  the 
DevIPs  Nose.  "  'Twas  a  sight  for  sore  eyes,  that. 
I  said  to  myself,  marking  how  you  swam,  *He 
remembers  the  lucky  way  round  of  it!'  Yes,  in- 
deed." 

Words,  laughter,  an  ardent  shining  of  his 
bronze  face,  declared  the  man  to  be  supremely 
happy,  jubilant.    In  his  emotion  was  a  queer  trait: 


34  FERNSEED 

namely,  that  he  seemed  to  regard  Leonard  as  the 
cause  of  it  all. 

"Why,  are  you  bringing  me  some  luck,  for  a 
change?'' 

"Give  us  half  a  chance  to,  sir,  and  you'd  seel" 
The  stranger  laughed  again.  He  was  very  dark, 
with  eyes  like  a  sparrow-hawk's,  humorous  lips 
that  curved  boldly,  and  a  thin,  thoroughbred  beak 
of  a  nose.  Barefoot,  he  stood  about  six  feet  two, 
clean  and  springy,  in  old  clothes  which  he  wore 
as  trim  as  a  soldier.  His  face,  his  whole  frame, 
contained  such  energy  that  while  waiting  there, 
quiet  enough,  the  man  appeared  restless,  alive  with 
flickering  wildfire.  "Ted  Peacock  said  it  was  you, 
passing  his  door.  I'd  heard  rumors  you  were  at 
the  inn.  Didn't  believe  'em  till  now.  You  sur- 
prised us  a  bit,  didn't  you?" 

He  studied  Corsant  with  a  keen  and  cheerful 
eye,  paused,  then  added: 

"Can't  tell  how  glad  I  am,  sir.  It's  good  to 
see  you  so  fit;  so  much  better  than  .  .  .  than  we 
might  expect,  if  you  don't  mind  my  speaking  out." 

Leonard  stared  up  at  him. 

"Look  here,  my  friend.  You're  mistaking  me 
for  somebody  else,  I  believe." 

At  this  reply,  the  stranger's  face  underwent  a 
rapid  and  curious  change.     A  shock,  an  alarm, 


FERN    SEED  35 

spread  across  it,  the  welcoming  glow  died  In- 
stantly, a  tinge  of  pain  troubled  the  eyes.  Then, 
looking  grave,  he  turned  to  hang  his  boots  In  the 
crook  of  his  elbow  and  pat  the  old  white  pony's 
neck,  with  the  air  of  a  man  tiding  over  some  em- 
barrassment. When  he  looked  round  again,  he 
was  smiling,  but  differently. 

"Right  If  you  say  so.''  He  spoke  with  a  forced 
heartiness.    "I  didn't  mean  to  put  my  oar  in." 

So  saying,  the  man  shortened  his  grip  on  the 
halter,  and  began  to  lead  his  drowsy  beast  away. 

"Wait.  Let's  clear  this  up,"  said  Leonard. 
"Who  did  you  think  I  was,  please?" 

The  other  looked  back,  and  laughed. 

"Anybody  you  like,"  he  answered  cheerily,  as 
though  humoring  a  sick  person.  "I'll  stay  mum. 
You  can  find  me  at  the  Ship  on  Ways,  or  a  word 
left  there  will  fetch  me."  He  hesitated.  "Of 
course  you  have  your  reasons  for  It,  I  know.  But 
Lord,  sir,  other  folks  could  tell  at  a  glance: 

"*Corsant  o'  the  thrulle 
Hath  lockeys  crulle ' 

As  the  old  rhyme  goes,  made,  I  take  it,  before 
the  sea  drilled  the  second  hole  clean  through 
out  there.     And  It's  true  of  all  the  fair  ones. 


36  FERN    SEED 

You*d  need  to  shave  your  head  or  buy  a  wig,  and 
even  then " 

He  moved  off,  chuckling. 

"How  did  you  know  my  name?"  asked  Leon- 
ard. 

The  dark  man's  face  became  a  study,  a  droll 
enigma. 

"It  was  revealed  to  me  in  a  dream,  sir." 

With  that,  he  and  the  pony  went  up  the  beach 
toward  the  river  path. 

"What  a  strange  meeting!  That  fellow  looked 
like — somebody.  Who  was  it?  I  want  to  hear 
the  rest  of  this  affair." 

Leonard,  so  thinking,  rose  to  follow  the 
stranger,  but  sat  down  again.  He  remembered 
that  he  was  naked. 


IV 


Later  in  the  week,  a  fine  sunny  morning  ramble 
took  him  through  another  hamlet  near  by.  A 
brook  ran  past  it,  under  a  little  old  gray  stone 
bridge;  the  church  tower,  built  of  the  same  stone 
and  weathered  to  the  same  aged  color,  rose  from 
a  cluster  of  cottages;  and  these,  quiet  as  though 
deserted,  lay  snugly  in  a  bower  of  apple  blossoms 
that  brightened  the  air.  Bees  hummed.  From 
the  pink-tinged  clouds  of  bloom,  petals  here  and 
there  snowed  lightly  over  stone  walls  into  the  lane. 

Opposite  the  church,  a  whitewashed  front  with 
tiny  windows  and  low  doorway  bore  a  sign  pro- 
claiming it  to  be  the  Ring  of  Bells,  kept  by  one  R. 
Grayland. 

This,  while  Corsant  paused  to  smell  the  apple 
blossoms,  reminded  him  of  something. 

"My  washerwoman  hangs  out  round  here,"  he 
thought.  "A  heavenly  neighborhood.  Let's  pay 
her  a  call,  and  thank  her  for  the  wallflowers." 

The  Ring  of  Bells,  when  he  had  stooped  through 

37 


38  FERN    SEED 

its  open  door,  appeared  silent.  A  dark  little  room 
contained  three  or  four  chairs,  a  bench,  some  jugs 
and  bottles  behind  a  counter,  and  a  three-cornered 
spittoon  full  of  sand.  By  the  window  hung  an 
engraving,  badly  foxed,  of  some  gloomy  scene 
from  Captain  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Pyrats  and 
Highwaymen.  The  silence  In  this  room  gradually, 
stirred  with  faint  music,  as  the  humming  of  bees 
drifted  in.  Beyond  the  counter  a  passageway  and 
a  back  door  stood  open,  so  that  Leonard,  looking 
straight  through  the  house,  could  see  the  dapple- 
green  shadows  of  a  garden.  ^ 

He  knocked  on  the  counter,  and  called  aloud. 
No  one  came  or  answered.  While  waiting,  how- 
ever, he  heard  movements  and  a  voice  that  mut- 
tered as  in  soliloquy,  outside  the  back  door. 

Stepping  through  into  the  garden,  he  found 
there  a  little  old  broad-hatted  woman. 

"Good  morning  I" 

She  seemed  an  odd  little  creature,  wiry  and 
bent  like  a  witch;  perhaps  deaf,  for  she  did  not 
look  up  at  his  greeting.  A  few  bee-hives  of  the 
Cheshire  pattern  stood  in  rank  under  a  high  hedge ; 
the  light-green  shade  of  a  vast  beech  covered  half 
the  enclosure,  mingled  with  brightness  refected 
from  a  neighbor's  apple  trees;  and  aloft  in  the 
warm,  scented  air,  bees  darted  to  and  fro,  glinting 


FERNSEED  39 

like  crumbs  of  brass.  A  tranquil  Tityre  Tu  kind 
of  atmosphere,  thought  Corsant,  brooded  over  the 
place. 

*'The  sweet  honey  bees,  some  folk  do  murder 
'em  with  fire  and  smoke,"  grumbled  the  old  wom- 
an. "Fd  never  the  heart  to  do  so.  My  pretties, 
you  won't  be  smothered  here.  No,  no.  They 
make  good  honey  and  good  mead;  they  shall  have 
good  kindly  care  at  the  Ring  o'  Bells.  'Tis  a 
bargain,  dears." 

Maundering  thus,  she  looked  about  her  in  a 
vague,  downcast  way,  as  though  perplexed  by  the 
cares  of  age.  She  wore  her  sleeves  rolled  above 
the  elbows,  and  what  appeared  to  be  long  brown 
gauntlets. 

"They  do  smell  angry."  Her  dull  gaze  roamed 
aloft,  passing  the  young  man  without  heed.  "So 
they  do,  but  let  'em  alone  and  they'll  come  home 
to  their  lady  queen,  never  you  fear." 

Coming  closer,  Leonard  saw  that  her  gauntlets 
were  of  living  bees.  They  covered  her  hands  and 
forearms  with  a  crust  of  brown  scales.  On  the 
brim  of  her  hat — a  flapping  wreck  of  straw,  some 
laborer's  cast-off  headgear — ^bees  crawled  or  hung 
in  clusters  like  worn-out  trimming. 

"They  know  their  Mother  Grayland.  Yes. 
Good  kindly  care." 


40  FERN    SEED 

'Tm  sure  they  do,  mother,"  said  Leonard. 

The  old  body  gave  no  sign  of  hearing,  though 
her  eyes  wandered  over  him  and  came  down  to 
study  the  earth  again.  They  were  black  eyes, 
dim,  smoky,  sunken  among  the  wrinkles  of  a 
dark  and  withered  face. 

"Some  folks  do  let  foul  brood  come  in,  the 
sluts."  She  brushed  from  her  arms  the  living 
scales,  plucked  them  off  like  currants,  and  scraped 
them  from  her  finger-tips  into  a  box  on  the  ground. 
*'Not  I,  sir.  Not  here.  The  dear  honey  pets, 
no,  never.  Their  habitations  be  sweet  as  babe's 
breath." 

Corsant  watched  her  operations  for  a  while  in 
silence.  They  were  slow,  fumbling,  but  uncannily 
wise.  Of  a  sudden  she  startled  him  by  drawing 
herself  quickly  up  as  if  waked  from  a  dream. 

"Of  course  you  want  to  try  it,  sir."  And  she 
bobbed  away  toward  the  house,  beckoning. 
"Come  in,  come  in." 

Over  her  bent  shoulders  and  the  flapping  hat 
still  trimmed  with  bees,  he  saw,  as  he  followed, 
that  the  Ring  of  "Bells  had  wall-flowers  on  its 
roof.  They  blazed  in  the  sun,  a  hanging  garden 
upheld  by  great  flags  of  rock  four  inches  thick. 

"Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down."  In  her  dusky  room, 
the  bee-woman  slipped  behind  her  counter  and 


FERNSEED  41 

bent  underneath,  rummaging  and  mumbling.  '*  'TIs 
the  best  mead  only,  the  old  ancient  mead,  to  be 
sure.  None  of  them  can  make  it  like  Mother 
Grayland's.  No,  sir.  A  secret.  Ah,  she's  lots 
of  secrets  In  her  crazy  head,  as  they  miscall  It. 
Yes,  yes.  A  secret.  And  the  White  Ale,  too; 
who  remembers  the  proper  ancient  grout  for  the 
White  Ale,  sir?  Not  them  who  talks  most.  No, 
no.  But  the  mead  now.  Where  Is  It  again? 
Aha,  here  *tls.    Here  It  comes  forth  from  hiding." 

Something  clinked  while  the  voice  ran  on;  then 
Mrs.  Grayland  crept  Into  view,  holding  a  bottle 
and  a  goblet.  She  had  merely  walked  past  the 
counter  without  unbending  her  back,  but  this  feat 
made  her  appear  more  than  ever  like  a  witch,  a 
dark  old  crone  stealing  from  some  cave  to  ad- 
minister a  philtre. 

"Taste  that,  sir,  do  now." 

Filling  the  goblet  carefully,  she  placed  It  by 
him  on  the  bench,  and  shuffled  away. 

"Thanks.  To  the  Ring  of  Bells,  and  your 
good  health." 

The  glass,  discolored  by  age  or  imperfection, 
had  a  purple  tinge,  so  that  the  mead  as  Corsant 
held  it  between  his  eye  and  the  window  shone  like 
amethyst.  He  took  a  sip.  It  was  cool,  sweet, 
very  mild.    He  took  a  pull,  and  praised  it. 


42  FERNSEED 

"Delicious,  mother.  Refreshing  on  such  a 
warm  day." 

The  woman  perched  on  a  stool  before  her 
shelves  doubled  over  a  gloomy  sibyl. 

*'Any  day,"  she  muttered.  "Warm  or  cold. 
Gentlemen  do  say  'tis  heady." 

Corsant  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  while  smoking 
and  resting,  drained  his  goblet.  The  room  seemed 
very  cool  and  comfortable,  quite  home-like,  as 
Pickwickian  as  his  bed-chamber  at  the  Inn.  It  had 
really  been  hot  outside.  He  felt  sorry  for  this 
old  creature,  and  must  do  something  benevolent. 

"The  sample  was  good.  Let  me  try  another, 
Mrs.  Grayland." 

She  came  round  the  counter  again,  refilled  his 
goblet,  and  went  back  to  her  perch. 

"They  say  'tis  heady,"  she  repeated. 

Leonard  smiled.  This  mead  was  pleasant, 
nothing  more,  and  his  head  fairly  hard.  Her 
warning  somehow  called  up  a  droll  memory:  how 
Saint  Louis  gave  a  temperance  lecture  to  the  Sleur 
de  Joinville,  Seneschal  of  Champagne,  and  how 
that  valiant  worthy  boasted  of  a  large  head  and 
a  cold  stomach,  not  to  be  overcome.  It  seemed 
far-fetched,  this  bit  of  the  past.  He  sat  wonder- 
ing why  such  a  thing  had  drifted  through  his 
mind,  when  suddenly  the  humor  of  It  surprised 


FERNSEED  43 

him  into  laughing.  At  the  same  moment,  he  felt 
a  genial,  Insidious  glow  within. 

"The  combs  I  take,  and  put  to  them  water  from 
Tobler's  Well,"  droned  his  hostess,  discoursing  at 
vacancy  under  her  hat.  **Good  fair  water,  with 
rose  leaves,  a  little  brandy,  and  cinnamont,  and 
secret  arts.  It  comes  out  sack  mead,  sir,  of  the 
best." 

Her  words  ran  on,  endless  and  inconsequent, 
like  the  humming  of  her  bees  in  the  garden.  This 
little  room  had  grown  too  comfortable,  too  cozy 
altogether. 

'*By  George,  she  was  right!"  thought  Leonard. 
"The  sly  old  drink,  it  has  a  wicked  recoil." 

He  had  better  do  his  errand,  and  get  out  into 
fresh  air.  Pondering  over  this  Inspiration,  very 
sagely,  he  roused  with  an  effort. 

"Mrs.  Merle,  at  the  inn,  said  my  laundress 
lived  hereabout.  Do  you  know  her?  She  sent 
me  some  beautiful  wall-flowers, — like  yours  on  the 
roof." 

He  rose,  and  stood  waiting  for  an  answer.  It 
did  not  come.  To  his  amazement,  the  old  woman 
slowly  turned,  climbed  down  to  the  floor,  and 
leaning  across  her  counter,  peered  at  him,  her 
eyes  wild  and  sharp  as  a  bird's,  her  face  no  longer 


44  FERNSEED 

blank,  but  crafty,  writhing  with  an  almost  terri- 
fied doubt. 

*'Is  it  a  dream,  sir?"  she  whispered. 

Leonard  stared  at  the  transformation. 

"I  begin  to  think  so,''  he  replied;  with  truth, 
for  her  mead  now  worked  in  earnest,  turning  the 
whole  scene  merry  and  unreal. 

Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
Gripping  the  woodwork  like  a  bat,  she  craned 
forward  to  search  his  face. 

"YouVe  never  young  Mr.  CorsantI" 

He  laughed. 

"Yes,  that's  my  name." 

'The  Lord  be  good  to  us !"  she  cried  in  a  fright; 
and  letting  go  her  hold,  shrank  backward  as 
though  to  run  from  the  room.     "It  is!" 

"Why?    What  of  that?"  said  her  visitor. 

She  remained  speechless  again,  watching  him 
narrowly,  edging  toward  the  passageway.  But  as 
Leonard — unmoved,  quite  benevolent  in  fact,  and 
rather  dizzy — gave  no  sign  that  he  should  try  to 
corner  her,  she  gradually  took  heart. 

"YouVe  been  abroad,  sir?"  she  ventured,  in  a 
coaxing  whine. 

"More  or  less,"  he  agreed,  smiling. 

"And  come  here,  and  bear  me  no  grudge?" 


FERN    SEED  45 

Uncertain  that  he  caught  the  words  right, 
Leonard  was  puzzled. 

"Grudge?  What?  None  in  the  world,  mother. 
Not  a  bit.    Why  should  I?' 

The  landlady  of  the  Ring  of  Bells  fixed  him 
with  a  long  stare,  then  kneading  her  hands  to- 
gether, began  to  smile  darkly. 

"Why  should  he?  Hark P^  she  mumbled.  Her 
smile  had  the  cunning  of  dotage,  and  yet  other 
qualities  crept  into  it:  something  shrewd,  some- 
thing bitter  and  regretful,  something  kindly. 
"Hark  to  the  grand  nature.  They  all  do  keep  it. 
Free-handed,  all,  open-hearted.  Why  should  he, 
the  poor  lamb  !'* 

She  made  a  step  forward,  paused,  began  some 
awkward  gesture  of  appeal,  broke  It  off,  and 
stood  hesitating.  Under  the  absurd  wreck  of  a 
hat,  her  withered  face  drew  into  the  oddest  puck- 
ers, and  the  gleam  of  her  eyes  appeared  to  change. 
For  a  moment  Leonard  thought  this  queer  old 
body  was  pitying  him. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it!"  she  cried,  and 
turning  suddenly,  hobbled  away  down  the  passage. 
"Why  shouldn't  he,  more  like    ..." 

What  she  brushed  from  her  cheek  as  she  went, 
might  have  been  a  tear  or  a  honey-bee.     At  any 


46  FET^N    SEED 

rate  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  did  not 
return. 

Moderately  astonished,  Corsant  remained  for 
a  time  waiting.  Among  the  whimsies  frolicking 
in  his  brain,  however,  came  once  more  the  desire 
for  fresh  air. 

"  'It  is  my  opinion,  Brother  Tadger,'  "  he  told 
himself,  "  'that  this  meeting  is  drunk.'  Eh? 
Shocking.     Out  you  go!" 

Sunshine,  after  that  gloom  in  the  Ring  of  Bells, 
blazed  white.  It  pained  his  eyes.  Yet  the  world 
outdoors  had  grown  wondrously  gay,  filled  with 
charming  details  all  fresh  and  new,  a  perfect 
Vanity  Fair  of  them  outbidding  one  another.  He 
surveyed  the  street,  where  nothing  moved  but  a 
few  petals  that  snowed,  as  before,  lazily  down 
over  stone  walls.  The  beauty  of  it  dazzled  him. 
He  had  never  seen  or  smelled  flowers  like  those. 
Across  the  bridge,  he  fell  into  another  muse  be- 
fore a  gate-post,  on  which  a  family  of  snails  had 
gathered  to  sun  themselves.  Admirable :  the  very 
marking  of  their  shells  .  .  .  That  train  of 
thought  arrived  nowhere.  His  study  was  never- 
theless profound. 

"  *A11  in  the  merry  month  of  May!'  " 

He  became  aware  that  he  was  humming  rather 
loudly. 


FERNSEED  47 

"Oh,  that  mead!'*  he  groaned.  "Plain  maudlin. 
I  must  walk  it  off.'* 

He  shook  himself,  and  set  forward  briskly, 
choosing  a  pleasant  cover  of  green  leaves  where 
a  path  wandered  along  the  brook.  With  cool 
sounds  the  water  accompanied  him  through  thick- 
ets dense  enough,  quiet  enough,  shadow-hidden,  to 
seem  the  heart  of  a  forest.  Birds  darted  up  from 
bathing,  and  left  tiny  rings  that  widened  on  the 
pools.  He  could  have  gone  on  with  delight,  mile 
after  mile.  It  was  all  too  soon  that  the  brook 
ran  forth  into  open  fields,  turned  commonplace, 
and  stagnated  as  a  kind  of  ditch  between  rounded 
banks. 

Yet  the  fields  were  pleasant  also  in  their  way, 
broad  green  slopes  to  right  and  left,  streaked  with 
misty  white  acres  of  daisies,  a  notch  of  sea  water 
sparkling  at  the  far  end.  Some  sheep  trotted  off 
before  him. 

"Not  so  bad."  Corsant  followed  them  and  the 
sunken  brook.  "They  grow  plenty  of  sky  round 
here.    The  merry  month  of  May." 

A  rough  wooden  bridge  connected  the  banks. 
Beyond  it,  to  his  left,  a  red  flag  waved  limply  in 
the  circle  of  a  putting-green.  A  fat  ewe  stood 
alone  there,  and  bleated  for  her  child  across  the 
water.    Past  her  the  landscape  ran  upward  in  long 


48  FERNSEED 

hollow  curves,  to  where  the  top  of  a  church  towers 
peeped  over  the  sky-line. 

"Miles  of  it,  and  nary  soul  In  sight." 

Something  whizzed  by  his  head  like  a  bullet. 
He  dodged. 

A  golf  ball  hopped  on  the  farther  bank,  hit  the 
ewe  fairly  in  the  ribs,  and  rebounded.  She  ran 
bundling  away,  while  the  ball  rolled  down  under 
the  bridge. 

Leonard  turned  to  see  where  this  missile  had 
come  from.  On  his  right  hand,  a  low  but  steeply 
rounded  hill  rose  bare  against  the  sky. 

"A  good  shot,"  he  considered. 

For  a  time  nothing  happened.  Then  over  the 
hilltop  some  bit  of  metal  flashed  against  the  sun, 
and  a  man's  figure  heaved  into  view. 

It  was  a  young  man.  He  came  walking  rather 
carefully,  with  a  limp  or  hobble,  and  used  his  golf 
iron  to  ease  himself  down  the  green  slope. 


The  young  man  was  alone,  carried  but  a  single 
club,  and  came  scanning  the  ground  below  him 
negligently,  as  if  not  more  than  half  absorbed  in 
his  game.  He  wore  loose  old  clothes  of  reddish 
brown  tweed. 

"Good  morning,"  said  he,  with  a  casual  nod. 
"Fll  swear  that  was  headed  straight.  Went  off 
clean  as  a  chip.'' 

The  golfer  had  a  pleasant  voice.  He  was  ofj 
about  Leonard's  height  and  age,  but  more  slen-, 
derly  built,  or  perhaps  worn  by  illness,  for  his  face 
looked  rather  pale. 

"A  beauty.  Hole  high,"  said  Corsant,  and  re- 
hearsed the  fate  of  the  ball.  "She's  under  the 
bridge." 

"Oh!  Thanks.  Glad  I  didn't  hit  you."  The 
man's  keen  blue  eyes  were  busy  admiring  the 
whole  sweep  of  country.  "Good  old  prospect, 
isn't  it?    I'd  forgotten  how  ripping." 

He  spoke  half  to  himself,  moved  by,  and  toss- 
49 


so  FERNSEED 

ing  his  Iron  among  daisies,  climbed  down  the  bank^ 
Leonard  retained  an  impression  that  the  chap  was. 
rather  handsome,  and  that  they  had  met  some- 
where before.  Presently,  under  the  bridge,  his 
voice  rang  hollow. 

"Mucky  down  here.     Dark,  too." 

Reappearing  for  a  moment,  he  threw  his  jacket 
up  beside  the  iron,  then  stooped  and  vanished 
again. 

**QuIte  sure  it  rolled  under,  are  you?" 

Leonard  answered  this  by  taking  off  his  own 
jacket,  dropping  it  near  the  other,  and  scrambling 
below  the  far  side  of  the  bridge.  Thus  in  a  dark 
hole  the  two  men  faced  each  other,  bent  almost 
double. 

"Your  ball  should  be  right  here." 

It  was  not,  or  stayed  well  hidden.  For  a  time 
they  spied  about  In  mud,  watercress,  footprints 
of  sheep,  and  cobwebby  corners,  all  confused  with 
joggling  sunlight  from  the  brook. 

"I  can  remember  round  here  as  a  tot,*'  said  the 
stranger.  "AH  Baba,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  Ben 
Gunn  used  this  place  by  turns;  it  was  Jean  Val- 
jean's  sewer,  one  time;  and  old  Macumazahn — 
what's  his  name?  Quartermain? — met  some 
frightful  kind  of  monsters  on  this  underground 
river." 


FERN    SEED  51 

"Giant  crabs,'*  quoth  Leonard.  "A  dead 
swan " 

"Right,  by  Jove !"  His  contemporary  laughed. 
"And  the  Flower  of  Light,  and  the  burnt  canoe, 
and  the  parboiled  nigger!  All  comes  back  now. 
Alph  the  sacred  river.  Odd  to  think — Humph  I" 
He  went  on  searching,  then  added  gruffly:  "Good 
deal  of  water*s  flowed  under  these  old  planks,  I 
fear." 

Next  moment  he  spoke  again,  in  a  different  tone, 
quickly,  as  though  surprised. 

"I  say,  here's  a  rum  fancy!  It  strikes  me — 
Did  we  ever  do  this  same  thing  together  before 
by  any  chance?" 

In  the  half  light,  crouching  like  a  pair  of  con- 
spirators, they  eyed  each  other  closely. 

"Why,  you  know,"  replied  Leonard,  "it  does 
seem,  well,  familiar.     Can't  say  how." 

The  other  nodded,  slantwise,  like  a  man 
puzzled. 

"You  felt  that,  too?  But — do  you  live  about 
here,  by  the  way?" 

"No,"  said  Corsant.     "My  first  visit." 

"Ah,  then  we  haven't,"  said  the  stranger, 
lightly.  "Curious,  though.  Some  former  Incar- 
nation.— This  mud  Is  hopeless.    Let's  give  It  up." 


52  FERN    SEED 

"Afraid  so,"  began  Leonard.  ''No,  here  she 
is.    Have  got." 

The  golf  ball  lay  drowned  at  the  bottom  of  a 
tiny  pit,  one  of  the  sheep's  footprints.  He  fished 
it  out. 

"Never  fails,"  remarked  its  owner.  "Many 
thanks." 

He  straightened  up,  and  brought  his  head, 
sharply  against  their  roof. 

"Ouch ! — Alph  the  sacred  river  has  shrunk,  like 
everything  else.  Bumped  my  stately  pleasure- 
dome,  eh?" 

,  All  this  while  the  mead  had  exercised  a  benign 
though  failing  power;  it  made  their  talk  under 
the  bridge  seem,  to  Leonard,  an  affair  of  great 
humor,  lawless  charm;  and  now  as  they  crawled 
forth  into  sunlight,  it  moved  him  to  laugh  at  the 
man's  words  more  than  they  demanded. 

"Pleased  you,  did  I?" 

Conscious  of  a  mild  scrutiny,  Leonard  spokci 
out.  Something  easy  and  frank  in  this  chance  ac- 
quaintance drew  his  confession. 

"Don't  mind  me.  I  took  a  drink  back  there, 
and  for  some  reason  it  turned  out  to  be  an  old 
ancient  whopper.  Looked  tame  enough,  but  stood 
right  up  on  its  hind  legs  afterward  and  neighed." 

The  golfer  picked  up  his  iron,  dropped  the  ball 


FERNSEED  53 

over  his  shoulder,  paused,  and  glanced  round  with 
a  tolerant  smile. 

*'It  will  happen  to  us,  won't  it?"  he  said  kindly. 

"It  will,''  returned  Corsant,  "when  an  old 
woman  by  the  wayside  circumvents  you  with 
mead." 

No  sooner  had  he  uttered  these  words,  than 
the  keen  blue  eyes  regarding  him  flashed  once, 
hardened,  and  lost  all  friendliness.  Their  lids 
drooped  as  though  weighed  down  by  sleep.  The 
stranger's  face  turned  scornful,  then  let  every  sign 
of  emotion  whatsoever  die. 

"Ah?"  He  might  have  been  about  to  answer, 
but  did  not.  Instead,  he  addressed  the  ball, 
stopped,  bent  down,  lifted  it,  snatched  one  of  the 
coats  from  the  grass,  whirled  it  over  his  arm, 
and  without  a  word  marched  angrily  away,  limp- 
ing. He  crossed  the  bridge,  to  follow  the  other 
bank  downstream.  The  baize-green  circle  of 
lawn,  where  the  red  flag  hung  fluttering,  he  passed 
as  if  it  were  contaminated. 

"Now  what  on  earth  did  I  say?"  Leonard 
stared  after  him.  "Temper?  Golly,  what  a  tem- 
per !  And  a  good  chap  like  that,  none  better,  you 
can  see:  what  got  into  him?" 

The  thing  outstripped  conjecture.  He  could 
only  watch  that  indignant  form  striding  into  the 


54  FERN    SEED 

distance,  conquering  its  limp,  and  visibly  fretting 
to  be  gone  out  of  reach. 

"Gave  up  the  hole,  too.** 

He  saw  the  man  stop  by  a  green-painted  box, 
tee  his  ball,  shrug  himself  into  the  jacket,  drive 
cleanly,  mark  some  invisible  flight,  and  set  off 
to  follow  up  the  long  field  streaked  with  daisies. 
His  club-head  twinkled  in  the  sun.  He  never 
looked  back. 

Puzzling  over  this  encounter,  trying  to  recall 
their  talk  and  sift  out  the  offence,  Leonard  went 
his  own  way  down  the  brook.  Mother  Gray- 
land's  liquor  ceased  its  inward  prancing:  that 
inordinate  cupful  of  mischief  passed  from  his 
mind. 

**A  strange  kind  of  morning  altogether,"  he 
reflected.     "And  the  wind-up  strangest  of  all." 

For  coolness,  he  let  the  jacket  hang  down  his 
back,  carrying  it  by  one  finger  hooked  through 
the  collar-tape.  At  home  again,  upstairs,  he 
tossed  it  upon  his  bed.  That  afternoon  he  spent 
in  Mrs.  Merle's  honeysuckle  bower  which,  at  the 
far  corner  of  her  little  garden,  afforded  a  sweet- 
smelling  retirement.  Nothing  disturbed  him  here 
but  now  and  then  a  white-throat  slipping  among 
the  starry  flowers,  or  darting  over  hedge  and  wall 
with  a  rattle  of  song.    His  landlady's  pet  sheep — 


FERN    SEED 


55 


once  a  cosset  lamb,  now  aged  and  purblind — came 
to  lie  down  with  the  old  white  bull-terrier  on  the 
grass  beside  his  chair.  In  their  innocent  com- 
pany, like  part  of  an  Aesop  fable,  he  was  ac- 
customed to  write  his  few  letters,  doze,  read,  or 
take  tea.  A  pocket  map  of  the  country  engaged 
him  to-day:  he  measured  with  his  pipe-stem  the 
scale  of  miles,  and  a  crotchety  line  that  zigzagged 
over  the  green  surface. 

"Call  it  twenty-four,"  he  thought.  "Weather's 
too  fine  for  sitting  in  trains." 

His  pocket  money  had  run  low.  The  nearest 
bank  for  his  letter  of  credit  was  in  a  large  sea- 
port, distant  more  than  two  pipe-stem  lengths  on 
the  "reduced  survey"  map. 

"To-morrow  will  be  Sunday.  Twenty  odd 
miles.  I'll  walk  it:  start  after  church  and  be  there 
by  dinner  time." 

Having  made  so  much  effort,  he  lay  back  and 
persevered  in  idleness.  Not  until  evening,  half 
undressed  in  his  room,  did  he  bother  with  prepara- 
tions for  to-morrow's  journey.    They  were  simple. 

"Tobacco's  out.  Must  go  buy  some  before  the 
shop  closes," 

Dressing  again,  Leonard  caught  up  the  jacket 
that  lay  on  his  bed.  He  slipped  into  this  garment, 
opened  the  door,  and  suddenly  halted. 


S6  FERN    SEED 

** What's  this?  Growing  heavier,  am  I?  Surely 
not  since  morning." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  It:  the  jacket 
bound  him  slightly  in  the  arms'-eyes.  He  returned 
to  the  window.  By  such  light  as  came  through 
vines  and  elm  branches,  he  found  himself  wearing 
ruddy  brown  tweed,  old  but  handsome,  of  an  un- 
wonted softness  to  the  touch. 

"Wrong  one  I"  said  Leonard.  "It's  the  other 
chap's.  What  a  nuisance !  Drat  the  old  woman's 
mead!  How  are  we  to  exchange  back  again, 
now?" 

He  could  not  remember  anything  In  his  own 
coat  that  would  enlighten  the  golfer.  Perhaps 
these  pockets  might  contain  a  card  or  a  letter :  he 
felt  through  them. 

"Nothing  outside." 

Inside,  however,  his  fingers  discovered  some 
kind  of  documents,  which  he  drew  out.  These 
were  two :  the  first  an  old  manlla  paper  envelope, 
empty,  and  bare  of  writing;  the  second  an  ordi- 
nary letter,  open  and  addressed.  Leonard,  scowl- 
ing in  the  twilight,  read  with  great  surprise  his 
own  name: 

"L.  Corsant  Esqre." 

He  stood  wondering;  then,  to  make  certain,  he 
lighted  a  candle  and  read  the  superscription  again. 


FERNSEED  57 

The  writing  was  good  commercial  hand,  the  name 
plainly  his  own. 

"May  be  an  Introduction:  a  chit  the  man  was 
bringing,  to  look  me  up." 

It  was  not :  the  thing  contained  only  a  receipted 
bill  showing  that  in  London  two  days  ago  L.  Cor- 
sant  Esqre  had  slept  and  breakfasted  at  a  little 
out  of  the  way  hotel. 

"It's  a  lie  and  a  pretty  cool  one,"  he  reflected. 
"Never  heard  of  the  place  before. — Why,  Mr. 
Hot  Temper  this  morning  must  have  been  using 
my  name." 

So  he  said,  but  so  he  did  not  believe,  remem- 
bering the  stranger's  face  and  manner.  Leonard 
blew  out  his  candle,  restored  the  papers  to  their 
pocket,  leaned  In  the  window,  and  thought.  Mrs. 
Merle's  deliberate  footsteps  moved  in  her  garden 
below.    The  sound  brought  him  inspiration. 

"Why,  of  course.  Plain  as  a  pike-staff," 
thought  Leonard.  "Fll  ask  her;  should  have  done 
it  long  ago.    Self-evident." 

He  lost  no  more  time,  but  ran  downstairs  and 
greeted  Mrs.  Merle  on  the  threshold.  She  was. 
bringing  her  bullfinch  Indoors  for  the  night.  They 
stood  and  chatted  for  a  while. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  he.     "Is  there  anybody 


58  FERN    SEED 

else  of  my  name  living  In  this  part  of  the  world 
nowadays?" 

Florid,  round,  cheerful  and  slow,  the  landlady 
balanced  her  bird  cage.  It  resembled  her  in  shape, 
like  the  wire  model  of  another  Mrs.  Merle,  doll 
dressmaker's  size,  cut  off  at  the  waist.  She 
weighed  his  question. 

"Why,  no,  sir.     No,  indeed." 

Her  answer  left  him  disappointed,  in  the  dark 
again.    She  could  not  have  understood. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  that?"  Leonard  per- 
sisted.    "No  one  else  at  all?    There  must  be." 

His  hostess  regarded  him  with  mild  bewilder- 
ment. 

"Well,  sir,  living  here  all  my  life,"  she  said,  in 
a  wounded  tone,  "it's  not  likely  I  wouldn't  have 
heard.  Anyone  else  of  your  name,  that  there  is 
not." 

Leonard  thanked  her,  left  her  mollified  by  some 
general  observations,  and  went  out.  The  evening 
sky  remained  bright,  a  pale-green  splendor  above 
the  trees;  when  he  had  bought  his  tobacco,  he 
lingered  In  the  street  to  admire  that  slowly  fading 
hour  of  stillness;  but  he  could  not  enjoy  it,  being 
puzzled  and  vexed.  Here  he  went  in  another 
man's  coat,  with  a  receipt  for  money  which  he 
had  never  paid,   and  which  Involved   things  he 


FERN    SEED  59 

had  never  done.  "Unless  in  my  sleep,"  he 
grumbled.  It  was  enough  to  create  feelings  of 
somnambulism,  double  existence,  crookedness. 

"Hold  hard.  IVe  got  it  by  one  end,  now,"  he 
decided.  "The  bee  woman  was  afraid  of  me. 
That  might  be  dotage.  But  then,  our  tall  friend 
on  the  beach,  with  the  pony,  thought  he  knew  me 
well.  Go  find  him.  At  the  Ship  on  Ways,  he 
said.    Where  the  dickens  is  that?" 

Halting,  at  gaze,  Leonard  marked  how  the 
river,  far  down  beyond  fields,  curved  like  a  sickle 
and  shone  like  glass.  The  hills  under  which  it 
lay  were  melting  in  smoky  brown  shadows  that 
promised  heat  for  the  morrow.  Very  broad  and 
solemn  the  vista  appeared,  through  this  peephole 
of  a  lane. 

"Where's  the  Ship  on  Ways?" 

One  door  in  the  lane  stood  open.  The  black- 
smith, working  late,  crouched  over  something  he 
had  carried  out  to  finish  while  daylight  lasted. 

"Good.  Peacock  can  tell  where  that  is.  And 
Peacock  will  know  our  friend's  name." 

With  that,  Corsant  drew  near  and  gave  the 
smith  good  evening. 


VI 


Mr.  Peacock  squatted  on  the  ground,  with  a 
vermilion  paint-brush  in  his  hand.  Against  the 
door  post  leaned  one  great  leaf  of  an  iron  gate, 
beautifully  wrought.  He  was  busy  dabbing  red 
lead  on  the  hook  of  the  lower  hinge. 

**Good  evening,  sir,"  he  replied  heartily. 

*Tou  keep  open  late,"  said  Leonard.  "What 
a  splendid  pattern  that  is." 

The  blacksmith  paused,  and  laid  brush  across 
pot.  Both  men  admired  for  a  time,  without  speak- 
ing, the  firm  yet  flowerlike  scrolls  of  the  gate, 
clean  bars,  curves  and  interlacing  tendrils  com- 
bined by  some  hand  that  could  lay  hold  of  beauty 
and  strip  away  entangling  prettiness. 

**Yes,  a  noble  piece  of  work,  sir.'* 

"Yours?" 

"Well,  hardly!"  Mr.  Peacock  looked  up  witK 
slow  surprise.  Then  a  grin  stole  over  his  broad, 
good-humored  face.  "You  must  know  that,  sir, 
if  anybody  does.     Having  your  bit  of  fun  with 

60 


FERN    SEED  6i 

me.  The  hinge  was  broke,  so  George  he  asked 
me  to  weld  on  a  fresh  pin,  you  see,  which  I  did." 
The  speaker  took  his  brush,  and  dabbed  on  more 
red  lead.  "There  now,  she's  done.  'Twill  dry 
to-morrow,  ready  to  hang  by  Monday  morning, 
and  George  can  put  the  black  on  afterwards.  I 
obliged  him  this  far,  George  having  no  red  handy. 
I  hope  it  suits.     I  hope  the  job  Is  satisfactory?'* 

Leonard  found  himself  appealed  to,  as  judge. 
He  failed  to  see  why,  but  answered: 

"Entirely  so,  I  should  think.  It  matches  the 
upper  one.     Very  neat  Indeed." 

This  verdict  seemed  to  delight  Mr.  Peacock. 
His  grimy  countenance  beamed. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  did  try  to  match  'em  as 
near  as  go."  He  stepped  back  and  considered 
his  work  gravely.  "All  mine,  says  you  joking  just 
now.  Only  wish  It  was.  'Twould  be  a  job  to 
take  pride  In.  George  says  some  old  forefather 
of  his  fashioned  that  gate,  sir.  But  then  George 
is  more'n  half  a  gipsy,  and  a  terrible  liar."  The 
blacksmith  paused,  then  suddenly  added:  "A 
terrible  liar  in  his  humorous  way,  o'  course  I 
mean;  he's  a  good  friend,  as  we  both  know,  and 
speaking  serious  they  don't  make  'em  truthfuUer." 

Corsant  had  never  heard  of  their  friend. 

"What  George  Is  that?" 


62  FERN    SEED 

Peacock,  turning  from  his  contemplation,  began 
to  stare. 

"George  Grayland,  sir." 

"Yes?    Who  is  he?    I  don't  seem  to " 

"Lord  love  you  I"  cried  the  smith.  Wonder 
overcame  him.  Then,  slowly,  his  eyes  grew 
troubled.  On  the  point  of  replying,  he  checked 
himself,  bent  down  to  recover  the  red  lead  pot, 
and  set  it  carefully  inside  the  door.  When  at 
last  he  spoke  again,  over  one  shoulder,  his  voice 
was  persuasive  and  subdued,  his  air  of  apology 
almost  coaxing.  "Why,  you'll  remember  George, 
Vm  sure.  Him  that  was  here  with  me,  the  other 
morning,  to  get  the  old  pony  shod.  As  you  was 
passing  by." 

The  manner  of  this  speech,  thought  Leonard, 
contained  a  puzzle:  he  let  it  go,  to  welcome  the 
matter. 

"Ah,  yes.  He's  just  the  boy  I  want  to  see. 
Where's  this  haunt  of  his,  again,  the  Ship  on 
Ways?" 

"Down  bel6w,  by  the  river."  Peacock  rose, 
and  with  a  chuckle  as  of  relief,  stood  pointing. 
"It's  the  ferry  house  there,  where  Ashkettle's 
daughter  keeps  her  boats.  The  name's  failing  out 
o'  memory,  nowadays.  My  grandfather  used  to 
say  they  did  build  three  four  little  dinky  ships 


FERN    SEED  63 

there,  Henry  the  Eight's  time.  Bless  me,  I  knew 
all  along  you  wouldn't  have  forgot  George. 
You'll  find  him  there,  Saturday  night." 

Corsant  helped  to  carry  the  iron  gate  into  the 
shop,  and  left  Mr.  Peacock  thoughtfully  watching 
him,  as  before,  down  the  lane.  Dusk  had  fallen, 
but  not  thick  enough  to  blur  the  tips  of  bracken 
near  by,  or  quench  the  yellow  embers  of  gorse  on 
out-cropping  rocks.  The  river  still  gleamed,  un- 
der shadows  now  settling  hard  and  black.  Lamp- 
light strayed  through  the  open  door  of  the  Ship 
on  Ways,  too  early  to  shine  far,  soon  lost  on  the 
grass-grown  slabs  bordering  the  water. 

Inside^  the  first  man  Leonard  saw  was  his  un- 
known friend  George,  the  terrible  liar.  He  stood 
near  the  lamp,  a  tall  handsome  figure,  laughing. 
A  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  curled  along  the  beams 
— dark  treenailed  oak,  Armada  wreckage — close 
above  his  head.  Beyond  in  the  heart  of  this  cloud 
sat  half  a  dozen  men  with  their  beer.  Someone 
had  just  cracked  a  joke. 

"Yes,  that  is  so.  But  you  don't  count."  The 
tall  man  beguiled  his  audience  with  a  wink.  "You 
came  from  Zennor,  where  the  cow  ate  the  bell 
rope." 

Whatever  his  retort  signified,  it  took  effect  like 
Old  Grouse  in  the  Gun-Room.     Laughter,  loud 


64  FERNSEED 

and  unanimous,  broke  out  from  the  conclave. 
Leonard  could  not  even  distinguish  the  victim.  He 
himself  remained  in  the  dusk, — unseen,  he 
thought,  but  before  their  merriment  had  fairly 
begun,  the  tall  man  turned  as  if  making  a  lazy, 
triumphal  exit,  slipped  outdoors,  took  him  lightly 
by  the  arm  for  a  moment,  and  began  at  once  to 
walk  with  him  side  by  side  away  from  the  house, 
up  the  hill. 

"Yes,  sir.  Good  evening.  What  can  I  do  for 
you?'' 

The  man's  alertness  was  a  marvel. 

"You  must  have  eyes  in  the  back  of  your  head," 
said  Corsant. 

"Heard  you  coming."  His  companion  chuckled. 
"I  suppose  you  want  to  have  a  talk  with  me?" 

They  passed  through  leafy  darkness  in  a  gap, 
entered  a  field,  and  paused  there  on  open  grass. 
It  was  owl  and  bat  light  now,  but  each  could  see 
the  other's  face  dimly. 

"Yes.  You  can  answer  a  question  or  two  for 
me,  if  you  will,"  said  Leonard. 

"At  your  service." 

"I  believe  your  name  is  George  Grayland?" 

"A  very  safe  beginning,"  replied  the  tall  one, 
and  laughed.  Yet  as  he  did  so,  his  manner 
changed.    His  eyes,  that  seemed  to  sparkle  even 


FERNSEED  6^ 

in  that  gloom,  seemed  also  to  take  on  a  cutting 
edge  and  grow  hostile.  Corsant  felt  them  watch- 
ing him,  seeing  him  all  anew,  from  head  to  foot. 
It  was  an  odd  impression  quickly  past;  for  the 
man  continued  as  before,  with  easy  good  nature. 
"Yes,  Fm  George  right  enough. — But  look  here. 
We'll  probably  have  a  good  deal  to  overhaul ;  why 
not  say  it  in  comfort  and  private?  My  time's 
yours,  of  course,  but  I  did  promise  to  do  a  fool's 
errand  this  evening.  Up  at  the  church.  Suppose 
we  go  there?  Not  far,  you  know,  and  questions 
will  keep." 

Leonard  consented.  They  climbed  the  fields  to- 
gether, and  went  up  the  lane  past  Peacock's  by 
early  starlight.  All  the  way  Grayland  talked  at 
random,  in  his  deep  and  pleasant  voice. 

"Yes,  sir,  as  you  say,  that  iron  gate's  a  fair 
wonder.  Makes  their  Jean  Lamour  grilles  and 
such  look  silly  enough,  to  my  mind."  He  dis- 
coursed on  weather,  and  fishing,  and  somebody's 
mare  who  had  foaled;  then,  as  they  left  the  vil- 
lage below  and  entered  a  darkness  where  grave- 
stones leaned,  under  elm  branches  and  the  stars, 

he  explained  his  errand.     "I  told  my You 

see,  I  promised  an  old  woman  to  get  her  some 
church-bell  grease   for   an  ointment.     She   cures 


66  FERNSEED 

the  hives  or  shingles  with  it,  so  they  say.  We'll 
have  to  rob  Gabriel." 

At  the  church  tower  he  halted,  jingled  some 
keys,  unlocked  a  door,  and  helped  Corsant  over  a 
blind  step. 

"You  have  the  run  of  the  place,  then,"  said 
Leonard. 

"No.  Fm  a  damn  bad  church-goer,"  sighed 
Grayland,  in  the  dark.  "But  the  ringers  keep  me 
as  a  hanger-on,  of  sorts;  because  when  a  boy  I 
lived  once  with  a  carillonneur  in  the  low  coun- 
tries." 

Corsant  heard  him  groping  near  by.  He  swore 
under  his  breath. 

"Some  fool's  gone  and  left  the  candle  upstairs. 
Never  mind,  sir.  It's  plain  round  and  round,  if 
you  keep  to  the  broad  treads  on  the  outside." 

They  mounted  a  winding  stair,  at  the  head  of 
which  Grayland  again  jingled  his  keys  and  un- 
locked a  door.  Boards  groaned  hollow  underfoot 
on  some  level  place,  like  a  platform.  Then  a 
match  flared.  Grayland  lighted  a  candle,  and  set 
It  on  the  floor.  They  stood  In  a  loft,  bare  except 
for  two  or  three  stools,  a  few  letters  or  bulletins 
framed  and  glazed  on  the  walls,  and  bell-ropes 
running  up  through  the  celling. 

"Seven  of  'em.    A  real  good  peal,  first-chop." 


FERNSEED  67 

By  candle-shine  the  tall  man  might  have  been  in 
fact  a  robber,  as  he  moved  softly  about,  touching 
the  ropes.  "Pega,  Bega,  Tatwin,  Turketyl, 
Betelin — those  five  are  named  like  the  old  Crow- 
land  bells,  burnt  In  the  fire — and  Gabriel  here, 
and  Mary  Rosamund." 

He  drew  a  pair  of  stools  near  the  candle,  in- 
vited Corsant  to  sit,  watched  him  do  so,  glided 
behind  him,  locked  the  door,  and  pocketed  the 
keys. 

"Gabrlers  our  tenor."  He  sat  down,  smiling 
darkly.  "Those  are  the  names  of  the  bells.  Now 
what's  yours?" 

The  question  sounded  of  a  piece  with  his  talk; 
he  had  not  raised  his  voice;  but  the  black  eyes 
over  the  candle  were  sharp  as  a  knife,  cool  and 
dangerous.  At  their  first  flash,  Leonard  perceived 
that  he  sat  locked  In  a  tower,  alone  with  a  born 
outlaw  who  rather  welcomed  enemies. 

"My  name's  Corsant." 

"Drop  it.    I  mean  your  real  name." 

"That's  all  I  ever  had.  You  can't  change  It 
by  blustering." 

The  man  continued  to  smile. 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "let's  be  frank  and  talk 
sense.  You  can't  carry  it  any  further.  Not  with 
me.     You  did  look  the  part  well  enough  before- 


68  FERNSEED 

hand,  In  a  way.  On  the  beach,  naked,  yes:  you 
fooled  me  good.  But  now,  no:  there's  not  much 
real  likeness,  and  the  game's  up.    Talk  sense." 

Leonard  began  to  grow  ruffled. 

"Better  give  me  a  lead,  then,"  he  replied.  "Talk 
some  yourself,  and  throw  in  a  dash  of  civility." 

The  black  eyes  glanced  what  might  have  been 
admiration. 

"Well  done.  You  have  studied  for  it,"  said 
Grayland.  "I  give  you  credit,  friend:  you  caught 
just  his  old  sleepy  look.  But  tell  me,  what  is  the 
good  of  play-acting  here  ?  None  in  the  world.  So 
come,  out  with  it  Plump.  Right  out  in  daddy's 
hand.    Who  are  you?" 

Leonard,  shoving  the  stool  back,  prepared  to 
get  on  foot. 

"Already  told  you,"  he  declared  quietly.  "We 
don't  seem  to  understand  each  other  very  well. 
If  there's  going  to  be  trouble,  why,  let's  begin." 

The  other  made  no  answer  for  a  moment,  but 
stayed  at  ease,  leaning  forward,  arms  across 
thighs.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with  the  same 
careless  mockery. 

"Fighting?  Well,"  said  he,  "as  a  rule  nobody 
has  to  ask  me  twice  either.  But  that  can  wait. 
All  I  have  to  do,  mark  you,  is  to  step  on  the 
candle.    Once  dark,  and  you're  the  cat  in  a  strange 


FERNSEED  69 

garret,  me  the  dog  who  knows  every  corner  of  it. 
Not  fair,  o*  course.  But  your  kind  don't  value 
fair  nor  foul  a  dead  herring." 

"Go  on."     Leonard  rose.     "Blow  her  out." 
Stooping,  Grayland  lifted  the  candle,  but  only 
to  balance  It  on  one  knee. 

"Ready."  His  dark  face  brightened.  "I  like 
you  better  for  showing  spunk.  It  underlay  your 
looks  anyhow;  that's  what  puzzled  me,  and  does 
yet."  He  paused,  frowned,  and  changing  from 
his  even  tone,  became  deadly  grim.  "But  youVe 
going  to  unwrap  me  the  whole  rig,  friend ;  whether 
we  take  to  our  hands  and  I  beat  It  out  of  you, 
or  whether  we  just  sit  here  all  night,  Sunday,  and 
all  next  week.  Corsant  Is  my  best  friend.  He's 
the  only  man  in  this  world  could  wipe  his  boots 
on  me  If  he  chose.  I've  killed  for  him  before  now, 
In  the  open,  free-for-all.  Last  night  he  came 
home.  Here  you  sit  wearing  his  clothes.  What 
have  you  done  with  him?  I  mean  to  know.  He 
came  home  on  the  quiet,  a-purpose,  and  only  two 
people  was  to  have  foreknowledge.  Well!  In- 
stead, you  come  sneaking  down  here,  call  yourself 
Corsant  at  the  inn,  knock  his  plans  whatever  they 
were  galley-west  buzzing  all  over  the  village,  and 
.  .  .  Why?  You'll  tell  me  why,  if  we  have  to 
hang  you  on  a  bell  rope  and  scorch  the  flat  of 


70  FERNSEED 

your  feet  black.  Vm  the  boy  to  do  dirtier  worK 
than  that  for  Laurence  Corsant." 

His  hearer  suddenly  laughed  and  sat  down. 

"AlFs  well,  old  man.  The  fight's  off.  I  never 
mentioned  it." 

Grayland's  eyes  narrowed  like  a  cat's.  He 
seemed  poised  for  action,  wary  of  this  quick  sur- 
render. 

"You  never  mentioned  what?"  he  drawled. 

"The  name  Laurence.  Because  why,  mine  hap- 
pens to  be  Leonard." 

Across  the  dark  man's  countenance  there  swept 
conflicting  emotions,  half  hidden  like  rioters  in 
smoke:  anger,  disbelief,  surprise,  and  a  kind  of 
welcoming  wonder. 

"By  the  left  hind  leg  o'  the "  He  com- 
pleted some  tremendous  oath  in  a  whisper,  and 
put  his  candle  on  the  floor  again.  "Back  from 
over  the  water!    Leonard.     American?" 

"Yes." 

"Return,  ye  children  o'  men!  I  might  have 
known. — ^What  brought  you  here  at  this  time?" 

"Accident.  Whim,"  said  Leonard.  "On  the 
look-see.     I'm  sorry  if  it  spoiled  anyone's  plans." 

Grayland  wagged  his  head,  thoughtfully. 

"You  didn't  swim  left-handed  through  the  Nos- 
trils by  accident,"  he  rejoined.     "Look  here,  we 


FERN    SEED  71 

began  wrong  to-night.  Could  feel  it  in  the  air. 
Now  let's  take  a  clean  start  and  go  with  the 
grain." 

By  common  impulse  they  shook  hands.  As  they 
did  so,  Leonard  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  his 
own  head  and  shoulders  darkly  mirrored  in  one 
of  the  glazed  bulletins  on  the  wall.  He  peered 
at  it,  and  laughed.  Seen  thus,  crouching  forward, 
the  reflection  told  him  why  the  young  man  under 
the  bridge  had  seemed  only  part  stranger. 

"Your  friend  Laurence  and  I  have  met,"  said 
he.  "Perhaps  you  can  help  us  change  our  coats 
back."  Describing  their  encounter  that  morning, 
he  suddenly  remembered  how  much  longer  ago 
and  farther  away  his  story  began.  "Why,  of 
course !  This  accounts  for  the  girl  in  Alexandria 
who  signed  my  name.  She  seemed  a  gay  and 
forward  hussy  at  the  time." 

Grayland,  hearkening  wisely,  nodded. 

"Girls  always  run  after  Corsant.  He  has  no 
time  for  'em. — ^Yes,  he's  just  home  from  the  East. 
I  was  out  there  with  him  a  while." 

The  man's  eyes  declared  that  he  could  say 
much  more  if  he  chose.  Instead,  he  waited  for 
Leonard  to  go  on,  and  then  sat  listening  like  a  well 
disposed  but  vigilant  critic. 


72  FERNSEED 

"In  Florence  one  night  a  chap  came  strutting 
up  to  me,  Prussian  officer  way;  tall,  stiff  beggar, 
pale  eyes   ..." 

The  critic  suddenly  took  another  posture,  with 
elbows  on  knees,  forehead  in  one  spread  hand  and 
one  fist.  He  appeared  to  be  staring  at  the  floor, 
but  his  face  remained  hidden.  Thus,  a  brooding 
visored  shape,  he  heard  Leonard's  tale  of  the 
restaurant  in  Sword  Street  and  Sun  Street,  Gino's 
cafe.  As  the  candle-light  wavered,  his  shadow, 
like  that  of  a  desponding  giant,  swayed  on  the 
wall  among  the  black  rods  of  the  bell-rope  shad- 
ows.    He  made  no  comment. 

"Does  all  this  bore  you?" 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"Go  on." 

Not  until  the  narrative  ended  with  that  very 
day  and  morning,  did  Grayland  rouse. 

"An  old  woman  circumventing  you  with  mead?" 
He  looked  up,  his  bold  eyes  twinkling.  "No 
wonder  your  cousin  got  the  hump  1  Of  all  chances 
on  earth,  his  very  first  walk  at  home,  that  old 
story  to  fly  up  in  his  face.     No  wonder." 

"I  don't  know  any  old  story  about  it,"  said 
Leonard. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  Grayland  replied. 
"There's  the  miracle."     He  pondered.     "Well, 


FERNSEED  73 

there.  And  your  great  great  something  dad's 
sword  and  shooting-arms  laying  rusting  on  the 
breakfast  table.    Humph!    All  these  years  .   .   .  '' 

He  rose,  and  stood  there  in  a  brown  study. 

**Well,  ril  exchange  your  coats  to-morrow 
morning  all  right,"  he  said  at  last.  *Tou  know, 
Mr.  Corsant,  I  may  ask  you  to  do  me  a  little  turn 
some  day." 

**Any  day  you  like,  Mr.  Grayland." 

"George,  please.  The  whole  thing  sounds  un- 
natural enough  without  that,  from  you,  sir." 

They  eyed  each  other  with  great  favor.  Their 
quarrel  in  this  dusky  loft  seemed  to  have  created 
a  bond. 

*'0h,  by  thunder!  Forgot  my  errand."  George 
swung  away,  grinning.  "You  keep  the  candle.  I 
can  see  'em  all  in  the  dark." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  something  white  and 
round, — an  old  anchovy  paste  jar. 

"For  my — for  the  old  woman's  holy  ointment." 

So  saying,  he  unlocked  the  door  by  the  stair- 
head, left  it  open,  and  with  a  bound  upward 
seemed  to  vanish,  until  Corsant  spied  his  long 
legs  rapidly  mounting  a  ladder.  From  overhead 
came  his  footsteps  in  the  belfry.  A  moment  after- 
ward he  dropped  lightly  into  view  once  more. 


74  FERNSEED 

"A  good  gob  of  grease  from  Gabriel,"  he 
chuckled,  tapping  the  anchovy  pot.  "Must  keep 
her  happy,  poor  soul,  if  we  have  to  rob  the 
church." 


VII 


The  service,  next  morning,  seemed  to  drag. 
Dim  light,  from  a  world  hidden  in  fog,  made  the 
windows  gray  but  served  only  to  deepen  the  gloom 
and  the  stone-coldness  of  the  church.  Leonard 
fell  prey  to  a  mood  anything  but  devout.  Every- 
one in  the  village  had  come  there  to  cough;  the 
parson,  a  worthy  and  even  a  genial  fellow  creature 
on  weekdays,  disguised  himself  with  a  Sunday  man- 
ner like  that  of  Cowper's  "jRne  puss  gentleman"; 
and  when  in  the  gloom  a  conscientious  choir  per- 
formed the  Athanasian  creed,  their  chant  seemed 
to  heave  stumbling-blocks,  more  than  were  need- 
ful, across  the  thorny  path  to  heaven.  Corsant 
drove  away  these  indecorous  fancies.  A  crick  in 
the  back  was  his  reward,  and  both  legs  went  to 
sleep;  for  the  pew,  a  narrow  shelf  of  hard  old 
oak,  cut  him  to  the  haunch-bone.  He  grew  rest- 
less. Moreover,  Grayland  had  promised  to  meet 
him  before  church,  to  bring  his  jacket,  and  had 
failed.     This  fog  outside  threatened  to  become 

75 


76  FERNSEED 

rain.     Altogether  the  world  was  too  much  for 
him. 

"*  .    .    .   I*d  soar  and  touch  the  heavenly  strings 

And  vie  with  Gabriel  when  he  sings 

In  notes  almost  divine, 

In  notes  almo-ost  divine/  " 

From  some  pew  behind,  an  excellent  bass  voice 
joined  the  hymn.  Its  vibration  came  deep,  as  if 
stirring  the  floor. 

Leonard  thought  he  knew  that  voice.  Later, 
glancing  round,  he  saw  Grayland's  long  frame  re- 
laxed in  an  attitude  of  patience.  The  last  man 
in  church,  and  nearest  the  door,  George  leaned 
his  head  on  the  rear  wall,  and  pointing  his  thin 
beak  of  nose  upward,  dreamily  studied  the  rafters. 
He  looked  like  a  black  wolf,  too  lazy  to  harm  the 
sheepfold. 

They  met  outside  the  churchyard. 

"You  singing  about  Gabriel,'*  said  Leonard  as 
they  walked  on,  "after  robbing  him  I  What  were 
you  in  a  church  for  by  daylight?" 

"Does  a  man  no  harm  to  chin-chin  joss  now  and 
then,"  replied  the  heathen,  grinning.  "Got  as 
much  right  to  sing  those  words  as  Sam  Medley 
had  to  write  'em.  Soaring  and  bumping  amongst 
the  heavenly  strings!     Put  the  whole  orchestra 


FERNSEED  77 

out,  he  might;  and  then  it  would  be  a  medley  for 
fair!" 

He  stooped  toward  a  hedge,  and  from  a  cranny 
where  no  bird  could  have  well  hidden  Its  nest, 
produced  by  some  conjuring  trick  a  parcel  and 
Leonard's  jacket. 

"I'll  set  you  on  your  way,"  he  continued,  strid- 
ing along  with  these  under  his  arm.  "No.  You 
don't  often  catch  me  there.  More's  the  pity.  Like 
perching  on  a  hymn  book  rack.  Those  carvings 
amongst  the  roof,  they  do  tell  us  a  heap  of  old 
things  worth  hearing.  But  then,  to  sing  you  the 
multiplication  table,  believe  that  or  be  damned 
fashion.     No,  no:  It  don't  persuade  a  chap." 

In  these  pagan  sentiments  Leonard  found  an 
echo  of  his  own. 

"We  think  alike,  George,  about  some  things." 

His  companion's  bright  black  eyes  darted,  side- 
long, a  very  quizzical  glance. 

"That's  good.— We  ought  to." 

"Why?" 

Grayland  ignored  the  question,  or  failed  to 
hear.  He  began  talking  at  random  as  they  went. 
The  fog  was  now  thinning  and  whitening,  to  lift; 
as  they  crossed  the  river  In  one  of  Ashkettle's 
boats,  a  gray  disk  of  sun  glowed  high  among 
streaming  vapors ;  and  when  they  had  climbed  the 


78  FERNSEED 

first  hill  on  Leonard's  journey,  the  sea  lay  spark- 
ling behind  them,  all  the  green  country  billowing 
before,  dappled  with  a  few  last  shadows  that 
scudded  inland. 

"Here.  Short  cut."  Grayland,  turning  from 
the  lane,  struck  into  a  foot-path  traced  only  by  a 
wavering  line  on  the  molster  grass  of  the  fields. 
"This  will  save  you  many  a  step.  Eat  and  drink 
first." 

He  chose  a  dry  rock  on  a  knoll,  sat  down,  and 
opening  his  parcel,  brought  forth  sandwiches  and 
a  flask. 

"The  grub  is  Cousin  Laurence's,"  he  explained. 
"Also  the  whiskey:  it's  genuine  Sma'  Still." 

They  pledged  each  other  and  fed,  with  sea  air 
appetite. 

"Troubled  about  your  cousin,"  said  the  pro- 
vider of  this  feast.  "You  saw  he  was  lame,  yes- 
terday, and  looks  frail?  That's  where  he  was 
tortured  by  those  devils." 

Corsant  waited,  but  his  friend  sat  brooding,  with 
dark  cheeks  flushed  and  eyes  that  beheld  some- 
thing evil,  far  off. 

"Who  were  they?" 

"Some  damn  tribe.  A  white  man  put  'em  up 
to  it.  I  haven't  caught  that  noble  sport  yet." 
George  spoke  very  softly,  but  his  voice  ached  with 


FERNSEED  79 

a  passion  of  revenge.  "There's  nine  or  ten  of  'em 
will  never  torture  again.  We  pulled  their  stings 
for  good.  I  happened  to  be  with  the  rescue 
party."  He  woke  from  musing,  and  ate  his  sand- 
wich with  peculiar  tidiness,  like  a  man  who  ab- 
horred crumbs.  "Your  cousin  labored,"  said  he, 
"in  the  vineyard  of  the  abomination  of  desolation, 
out  there,  alone,  the  God-awfullest  holes  in  the 
East.  His  work,  you  know,  was  like  good  house- 
keeping: well  done,  you  never  see  or  hear  of  it; 
undone,  there's  gurry  all  over  the  shop.  Ay,  and 
blood  too.  He  did  more'n  a  dozen  of  your  po- 
litical agents.  Unattached;  not  recognized; 
couldn't  be.  Why,  that  boy,"  he  cried  in  admira- 
tion, "nobody  will  ever  know  what  that  boy  has 
suffered  and  done.  The  quiet  little  beggar,  I  told 
you  he  could  wipe  his  boots  on  George  Grayland 
any  day.     So  he  can." 

The  speaker  jumped  up,  strode  back  and  forth 
over  the  grass  to  vent  enthusiasm  in  action,  then 
returned  and  flung  down  on  the  rock  again. 

"I'm  sorry,"  declared  Leonard,  "if  my  coming 
here  upset  his  plans  at  all.  You  said  last 
night " 

"No  fault  o'  yours,^'  growled  George.  "It  did, 
but  just  by  happen-so.  He  thought  to  slip  down 
here,  do  a  flit,  no  one  the  wiser.     Hadn't  been 


8o  FERN    SEED 

home  since  a  kid.  Well,  here  was  you,  weeks 
ahead,  taking  his  place  blindfold,  the  news  going 
round  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Can't  be  helped, 
that's  all.    Fate.    Luck." 

"Bad  luck,''  said  Corsant. 

''Bad  or  good,"  was  the  reply.  "Never  can 
tell  till  It  plays  out." 

Their  mound,  a  high  point  in  the  landscape,  had 
nothing  round  It  but  grass  and  open  sky;  not  a 
bush,  not  a  handful  of  leaves  anywhere  near,  and 
from  sea  landward  to  the  farthest  hill  no  living 
creature  but  a  tit-lark  that  fluttered  and  twittered 
In  the  sunshine  two  fields  away.  Yet  Grayland, 
before  he  spoke  again,  looked  on  all  sides  care- 
fully as  though  in  a  room.    He  lowered  his  voice. 

"What  lays  heavy  on  my  mind,"  said  he,  "is 
this.  The  pole-cat  we  spoke  of  just  now,  noble- 
man who  had  our  boy  tortured  and  maimed,  will 
follow  on  down  here  If  he's  got  wind.  Good  rea- 
son why.  Expect  him  any  day.  He's  a  dirty 
fighter,  and  dangerous.  Well,  so'm  I:  nothing 
would  suit  my  book  better "  Grayland's  pow- 
erful and  shapely  hands  grappled  some  imaginary 
bulk,  wrenched  it  In  two,  and  cast  away  the  pieces. 
"But  I  can't  always  be  on  deck.  And  with  Lau- 
rence Corsant  sick  as  he  is,  needing  rest— -Well, 


FERN    SEED  8i 

I'm  off.  Here's  your  coat.  That  damn  beast 
may  be  prowlin'  Vound  the  house  now." 

They  rose.  Leonard  unbuttoned  and  was  re- 
moving his  namesake's  jacket,  when  suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  pulled  It  on  again. 

"No.  Why  swap?"  he  asked.  "Here's  an 
offer.  I  did  the  damage,  so  give  me  a  chance  to 
repair  It." 

"What  do  you  mean?    How?" 

"Mr.  Laurence  Corsant  needs  a  rest.  Suppose 
we  let  him  have  one.  I  took  his  place  blindfold, 
you  say.  Now,  If  he's  In  danger,  suppose  I  took 
it  again  for  a  time,  blinkers  off.  Would  that 
help?" 

Grayland  stared. 

"Goliath  o'  Oath!"  he  cried. 

"You  arid  I,  George,  would  make  a  strong  team. 
Me  the  bait,  and  you  to  land  the  fish." 

The  older  man  laughed. 

"They  call  me  wild,"  said  he,  "but  I  begin  to 
believe,  alongside  of  you,  son,  I'm  a  fuzzy  lamb  on 
wheels.    Danger,  yes.    Come  now,  bar  nonsense." 

"You  bet,  bar  nonsense,"  replied  the  younger. 
"It  would  be  larks." 

"Might  not."  George  shook  his  head.  "You 
run  along,  boy.     See  that  gorse  a-shlning  on  the 


82  FERN    SEED 

next  brow?    Turn  to  your  right  round  that.     Fm 
off." 

Half  way  down  the  slope,  Leonard  heard  foot- 
steps come  flying  after  him.  He  turned,  and  saw 
that  Grayland's  long  legs  could  cover  ground 
amazingly. 

"Bait,  Fm  tempted  to  use  you."  His  friend 
pulled  up,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  grin- 
ning mischief.  "You'll  hear  from  me  to-morrow 
or  day  after.  If  'twill  work,  Fll  put  you  on  the 
hook  like  old  Izaak,  as  if  I  loved  ye." 

Turning  to  go,  George  had  a  second  after- 
thought. 

"You'd  better  know,  in  case,"  he  added. 
"You'd  better  know.  Bait,  that  our  fish  is  that 
white-eyed,  wooden-jointed  pike  you  saw  in  Gino's 
cafe.  Street  of  the  Sword.    So  long!" 

With  that  he  set  off  running  again,  up  the  hill 
as  if  it  were  level  ground.  On  the  sky-line  he 
flourished  his  arm  in  farewell,  and  dropped  below 
the  crest. 

Leonard  went  down  alone  toward  his  landmark, 
the  shining  gorse.  With  no  lack  of  thoughts  for 
company,  he  travelled  the  hillsides,  now  so  far 
aloft  that  he  could  count  the  white-washed  stones 
of  the  coast-guard's  path  like  a  bead  necklace  un- 
strung  along  the   cliffs,   now   deep   in   a   valley 


FERN    SEED  83 

chequered  with  fields  of  pink  and  pale  green,  where 
the  air  boiled  quivering  up  the  slopes.  An  hour's 
walking  brought  him  to  a  road  that  glared  and 
sweltered.  The  afternoon  grew  hot.  Sometimes, 
but  rarely,  he  passed  under  shade  and  verdure  in 
a  street  of  cottages,  all  still  as  though  abandoned ; 
sometimes,  tearing  the  Sunday  calm  into  tatters, 
destroying  a  mile  or  two  of  straight  solitude,  a 
motor  car  roared  by  with  dust  and  stink ;  but  most 
of  the  way  and  the  country  he  had  to  himself,  till 
heat  and  lonesome  plodding  turned  monotonous. 
Once,  among  the  endless  show  of  hedge  flowers, 
he  found  some  white  sprays  unknown  to  him: 
rather  pretty,  he  thought,  like  dwarf  lilies  run 
wild;  and  while  resting,  he  plucked  and  pocketed 
a  few,  to  show  Mrs.  Merle  later,  and  ask  their 
name  of  that  wise  woman. 

The  tramping  became  more  and  more  tedious, 
but  Grayland's  short  cut  over  grass  had  saved 
many  steps  indeed.  Well  before  sunset  he  mounted 
a  rise,  and  saw  the  ugly  blotch  where  his  journey 
should  end, — a  huddle  of  slate  roofs  glowering 
bluish  under  hot  sunset,  murky  with  the  dregs  of 
Saturday  smoke. 

"Now  bath  and  dinner." 

The  hotel  to  which  he  asked  his  way  through 
grimy  streets,   frowned  soberly   from  its  grand 


84  FERN     SEED 

portico,  but  within  was  all  cleanliness,  quiet,  and 
sober  welcome.  His  room  proved  regally  spacious. 
He  was  the  more  surprised,  therefore,  to  find 
while  undressing  that  it  reeked  with  onions. 

"The  kitchen  can't  be  so  near?     Phew!" 

Leonard  flung  open  the  windows,  took  his  bath, 
and  returning  met  the  reek  still  tEere,  worse  than 
ever. 

"Vile!     The  stuff's  on  my  clothes,  too." 

From  his  pocket  he  tugged  a  clean  shirt,  tightly 
rolled.  With  It  came  tumbling  the  remnants  of 
those  pretty  wayside  lilies.  One  sniff,  as  they  lay 
on  the  carpet,  was  enough. 

"Wheel"  Leonard  gathered  them  gingerly, 
and  hurled  them  into  the  street.  "Wild  onions  or 
wild  garlic.     Fob  I     Shame  on  you,  posies." 

Laughing,  he  leaned  out  at  window  until  aired 
enough  to  go  downstairs  among  his  fellowmen. 
From  a  big  leather  chair,  sheltered  by  hothouse 
fronds,  he  watched  them  while  waiting  for  dinner. 
Amid  the  usual  come  and  go  of  a  lobby,  two  small 
children  drew  his  attention,  brother  and  sister, 
both  dazed  by  the  great  world,  shy,  and  dreamy 
with  wondering  expectation.  They  were  charm- 
ing, thought  Leonard. 

A  voice  behind  the  leaves  caught  his  ear. 

"Look?    I  toP  you  so.    Look  there. — Corsant." 


FERN    SEED  85 

He  turned  his  head  quickly.  Two  men  stood 
behind  him,  at  the  desk.  He  saw  only  the  back 
of  the  taller  one,  and  the  face  of  the  shorter, 
which  was  round,  dark,  and  chubby.  Neither  had 
spoken  to  him :  both  were  looking  carelessly  over 
the  register,  as  if  to  pass  the  time. 

*'Shut  up,  you  fool.     I  can  read.'' 

They  went  lounging  off  toward  the  street  door. 
Leonard's  ambush  of  leaves  hung  in  the  way,  and 
when  he  rose  for  a  better  view  it  was  too  late. 
The  children  scampered  across  in  that  direction, 
to  twine  themselves  round  the  legs  of  a  newcomer, 
a  handsome  bronzed  young  sailor  daddy,  just  off 
his  ship,  who  beyond  a  doubt  was  glad  to  see 
them.     Mother  followed  more  sedately. 

Leonard  forgave  the  obstruction. 


VIII 

A  SOLEMN  gentleman  In  a  cage,  with  a  brazen 
scoop,  ladled  forth  much  money  and  rendered  his 
opinion  that  the  morning  was  overcast.  Leonard 
accepted  the  opinion,  weighted  his  namesake's 
pocket  with  the  money,  and  having  thus  quickly 
finished  the  business  which  had  brought  him  so 
many  miles  on  foot,  began  his  homeward  journey 
straight  from  the  bank  door.  N  memorial  clock 
in  a  dumpy  little  tower,  staring  blear-eyed  through 
fog,  rang  the  half  hour  past  ten  as  he  crossed 
the  square.  Few  persons  were  abroad.  In  be- 
lated stillness  and  gloom,  a  kind  of  Black  Monday 
reigned. 

To  gain  variety  in  his  return,  Leonard  chose 
another  route ;  but  for  three  hours  of  good  tramp- 
ing he  saw  no  more  than  the  green  borders  along 
its  way,  the  same  hedge,  the  same  branches  of  elm^ 
ash,  thorn,  or  beech,  the  same  margin  of  field  con- 
tinually repeated  through  a  world  of  smoky  drift 
and  dampness.     At  times  this  drift  brought  with 

86 


FERN    SEED  87 

It  a  sound  or  two :  sheep  bleated  far  aloft,  harness 
leather  creaked  near  by,  a  ploughman  upbraided 
his  trampling  horses,  a  dog  barked  in  the  dis- 
tance, a  sea-gull  miaowled  overhead:  but  these 
evidences  of  life  unseen  came  rarely,  and  for  miles 
together  he  heard  nothing  except  his  own  foot- 
steps, saw  nothing  to  right  or  left  beyond  the 
green  edges  of  the  void. 

Early  afternoon  found  him  hungry  and  steam- 
ing hot.  The  road  plunged  down  some  valley,  the 
narrowness  of  which  made  itself  felt  by  a  more 
sultry  moisture,  and  seen  in  patches  of  hillside 
floating  high  through  the  fog.  At  bottom  here 
Leonard  came  without  warning,  almost  between 
strides,  into  another  village  quiet  as  though  for- 
saken. Midway  in  the  street  rose  an  elm.  By  its 
trunk,  less  graceful  but  no  less  round  and  erect, 
stood  a  lone  figure,  a  constable  meditating  on  the 
absence  of  crime. 

"In  uffish  thought,"  was  Leonard's  commentary. 
He  approached  the  elm,  greeted  the  thinker,  and 
asked  where  food  was  to  be  had. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  slowly,  as  if 
revolving  in  his  mind  a  Homer's  catalogue  of 
taverns,  "you  might  try  the  Bottle  of  Hay.  In 
fact,  it's  the  only  one.  That  little  house  yonder, 
with  door  open." 


88  FERN    SEED 

He  pointed  stiffly  down  street,  to  the  far  end. 
Corsant  thanked  him,  and  passed  on. 

The  cluster  of  cottages  hidden  under  green 
leaves  and  gray  vapor,  had  swum  into  view 
quietly  as  part  of  a  dream,  and  even  now,  though 
plain,  solid,  built  four-square  to  last,  it  kept  a 
dreamy  old  look.  Sleep  had  Keen  poured  on  its 
head,  an  exposition  of  slumber  lay  warm  on  the 
gables.  Mother  Goose  might  have  lived  and  writ- 
ten here,  nothing  happened  since  her  time.  The 
Bottle  of  Hay,  a  beetle-browed  tavern,  sat  squint- 
ing down  at  a  causeway  and  a  veiled  strip  of 
marsh. 

Leonard  stepped  through  the  open  door,  but 
nearly  backed  out  again  at  once.  After  so  tidy 
a  street,  this  interior  was  downright  scandal. 
Round  the  greasy  wainscot  ran  a  black  frieze  of 
smudge  where  heads  had  lolled;  glutinous  rings 
marked  every  table  top,  shining  like  the  trail  of  a 
slug;  the  gloom  was  close,  hot,  rank-scented,  and 
the  floor  swam  with  puddles  of  Saturday  night's 
leaving. 

"Yes,  sir."  A  dreary  slack  woman,  neither  old 
nor  young,  dragged  herself  forward  from  some 
lurking-hole.  "Good  evening,  sir.  What  can  I 
get  you?" 

Leonard  paused  on  the  threshold.    He  took  a 


FERNSEED  89 

kind  of  shame-faced  compassion  on  her  at  first 
glance,  a  helpless  being,  foredoomed.  Besides, 
the  next  food  would  be  some  ten  miles  farther.  A 
long  course  of  Chinese  Inns  had  left  him  hardened. 

"Whatever  you  have  best,  please."  Resigning 
himself,  he  hung  up  jacket  and  cap  on  a  peg  in  the 
vestibule. 

By  pulling  the  Inner  door  wide  open,  he  could 
sit  behind  it  as  in  a  private  box,  and  perhaps  for- 
get the  rest  of  the  room.  By  pushing  outward  a 
stubborn  window  over  his  head,  he  caught  more 
fresh  air,  at  any  rate,  than  had  passed  that  way 
in  years.  Tobacco  ashes  covered  his  table,  but 
he  blew  them  away,  spread  an  old  newspaper  for 
his  cloth,  and  sat  down  to  swelter  in  patience. 

After  a  time,  he  heard  the  woman  returning. 

"Here,  behind  the  door!"  he  called. 

"Oh,  sir,  I  thought  you  were  gone." 

She  spoke  as  if  that  would  have  been  the  more 
natural  discovery,  and  coming  round  the  door, 
brought  her  best  into  his  corner.  It  was  bad 
cheese,  worse  bread,  and  excellent  beer  in  a  sticky 
mug. 

Leonard  paid  her,  intending  to  drink  promptly, 
then  carry  his  food  along  with  him  outdoors.  The 
woman  had  not  dragged  herself  out  of  the  room 
again,  however,  before  a  sudden  whirring  noise 


90  FERN    SEED 

came  rapidly  down  the  street,  grew  into  a  sputter- 
ing roar,  and  ceased  abruptly.  Two  voices  be- 
neath Leonard's  window  exchanged  words  that  he 
did  not  catch,  and  soon  afterward  feet  trampled 
in  the  vestibule. 

Remembering  that  his  jacket  hung  there  and 
contained  almost  all  his  money,  Leonard  peeped 
through  the  chink  of  the  door.  He  saw  two  pairs 
of  khaki-colored  legs  go  by. 

"Beer,"  said  a  harsh  voice  in  the  room.  "And 
bread.    And  be  quick  about  it." 

Chairs  creaked.    A  man  sighed. 

**Ah,  comme  fat  soiff  Bon  sang,  je  suis  tout 
mouiller*  he  declared  plaintively.  '7/  fatit  rester 
ici  pour " 

The  first  voice  broke  in,  growling: 

^'Tu  as  hien  souffert,  pauvre  ange!  Bah,  fen 
at  assez,  de  tes  malheurs,  Cest  le  mic  mac,  ga. 
Mais  attention,  ecoute '* 

The  talk  flowed  on,  in  undertones.  Leonard, 
finishing  his  ale,  heard  enough  to  know  that  the 
accent  of  both  men  was  barbarous.  They  could 
not  be  French.  It  struck  him  as  odd  that  they 
should  sit  there  earnestly  employing  a  language 
foreign  to  them  both.  He  pressed  his  temple 
against  the  greasy  wainscot,  brought  one  eye  to 


FERNSEED  91 

the  chink  of  the  door,  and  so  looked  through,  along 
the  wall. 

Facing  him,  three  yards  away,  sat  the  little 
chubby  man  who  had  read  his  name  aloud  from 
the  hotel  book  last  night.  The  fellow  now  wore 
misfit  cycling  garb,  dust-colored,  wrinkled,  and 
sweaty.  He  mopped  his  dark  cheeks  with  a  hand- 
kerchief none  too  clean,  and  glowed  like  a  fur- 
nace. Of  his  companion  Leonard  could  see  only 
half  a  shoulder. 

"Missed  him?  Till  now,  yes.  But  he  must 
have  gone  this  road :  we  tried  the  other  far  enough. 
If  we  don't  overtake  him,  what  then?  Keep 
straight  ahead,  and  be  there  waiting,  on  the 
ground  beforehand." 

Thus,  in  bad  French  and  always  harshly,  the 
man  to  whom  the  shoulder  belonged  was  grum- 
bling, when  some  object  outdoors  fell  with  a  crash. 

"There  goes  your  damned  motor-cycle  again!" 
he  cried.     "I  told  you  to  prop  it,  imbecile  I" 

The  speaker  jumped  up  from  table,  and 
marched  out,  cursing.  A  moment  later  he  re- 
turned, more  slowly,  and  appeared  to  halt  near 
the  threshold. 

Leonard  bent  forward.  Aslant  through  his 
good  practicable  cranny  he  spied,  in  the  vestibule, 
a  rather  tall  man  angrily  pulling  off  his  coat.    His 


92  FERNSEED 

motions,  though  energetic,  were  stiff  and  muscle- 
bound.  While  tossing  the  garment  over  a  peg, 
the  stranger  beheld  Laurence  Corsant's  old  ruddy- 
brown  tweed  hanging  there.  He  gave  a  per- 
ceptible start,  pounced  on  it,  handled,  scrutinized 
the  cloth  like  a  tailor,  then  quickly  turned  to  look 
all  about. 

His  face,  his  pale  gray  eyes  full  of  shifty  light, 
were  unmistakeable.  Here  within  arm's  reach 
stood  George's  polecat,  the  man  who  had  gone 
sneering  through  Gino's  cafe  in  Sword  Street. 

Next  moment,  cool  and  swift,  he  was  rummag- 
ing in  the  jacket.  Leonard,  with  great  indigna- 
tion, saw  his  own  belongings  pulled  out,  scanned, 
then  by  flying  fingers  transferred  into  the  pockets 
of  the  stained  yellow  coat  alongside. 

"Smiling,  are  you?'*  thought  the  young  man. 
*Tou'll  smile  other  side  your  mouth,  in  half  a 

jiffy-" 

He  sat  still,  waiting. 

The  pickpocket  entered  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

"Psst!  Kamsa!"  He  startled  the  chubby  one 
with  a  whisper.    "Our  man's  here,  in  this  house !" 

Leonard  was  quick  in  action,  light  on  his  feet. 
Without  a  sound  behind  the  door,  he  climbed  upon 
the  table — the  bare  end,  taking  care  not  to  touch 


FERN    SEED  93 

the  newspaper — and  wriggled  through  the  window 
like  an  eel. 

"Is  he,  though,  this  man  of  yours?" 

The  street  lay  empty  and  Mother  Goose-like 
as  before.  Under  his  great  elm  tree  the  constable, 
in  profile,  strictly  meditated. 

"Shan't  disturb  you,  my  boy.  We'll  do  our 
own  law.     Tooth  for  tooth." 

From  the  doorstep  he  heard  that  pair  still 
buzzing  vehemently  at  their  table.  He  stole  to 
the  row  of  pegs,  reversed  the  legerdemain,  and 
emptied  his  foe's  pockets.  There  was  no  time 
for  choosing  of  property.  Leonard  took  all  that 
came  to  hand,  papers,  money,  anything,  crammed 
it  inside  his  shirt,  took  jacket  and  cap,  and  slid 
outdoors  again. 

"A  good  row  would  be  rather  fun,"  he  thought. 
"I've  a  notion " 

Just  then  the  inner  door  slammed.  They  were 
searching  behind  it,  in  his  private  box  the  corner. 
He  laughed. 

"No,  a  jape.  A  gentle  jape  were  best  in  this 
hot  weather." 

Two  motor-cycles  leaned  against  the  front  of 
the  house.  Each  had  as  fine  a  leather  tool-pouch 
as  man  could  wish.    Leonard  procured  some  tools. 


94  FERN    SEED 

He  did  not  hurry.  A  deliberate  humor  of  dev- 
iltry inspired  him. 

"All  my  life  I've  longed  to  ruin  one  of  these 
beastly  things."  He  stripped  off  the  first  saddle, 
then  the  second.  "No  time  like  the  present.  Never 
get  such  a  good  chance  again."  With  a  pretty 
little  spanner,  he  gathered  a  handful  or  two  of 
vital  nuts,  which  he  threw  broadcast  away.  Tire 
after  tire  fizzed.     "It's  a  pleasure." 

On  a  green  bank  where  the  nuts  had  scattered, 
humble  wayside  lilies  grew,  white  and  fairy-like. 

"Just  the  thing.  My  dear  old  posies.  Garlic 
and  onions  for  dressing." 

He  picked  a  handsome  bunch  of  them,  and  re- 
turned to  the  door.  That  fellow's  cycling  tunic 
had  shown  a  rip  in  the  lining.  He  found  it  again, 
thrust  his  floral  tribute  well  down  inside,  and 
patted  all  smooth. 

**C*est  le  bouquet,  messieurs!" 

Even  then  his  devil  craved  something  more. 
He  could  hear  a  throaty  voice  in  the  kitchen, 
haranguing  or  calling  the  landlady.  It  seemed  a 
pity  not  to  improve  this  occasion. 

Leonard  clothed  himself,  and  then  opened  the 
inner  door. 

^^Bonjour,  monsieur."  He  politely  doffed  his 
cap.    '7/  fait  bien  chaud" 


FERN    SEED 


95 


At  the  table  by  the  wall  sat  his  little  round 
rascal,  with  handkerchief  now  tucked  like  a  bib, 
under  his  oily  chops.  This,  and  the  swaddling 
folds  of  his  gabardine,  made  him  resemble  a  de- 
praved infant,  a  dark  goblin  child. 

"Ah,  ah!"  he  stammered.  A  look  of  stupid 
cunning  crept  Into  his  eyes.  "Yes,  vairy  'ot,  sir. — 
'Ow  tit  you  know  we  were  Freynsch?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Leonard,  "because  I  heard  you 
talking  it." 

This  logic  appeared  to  confound  the  man  in 
the  bib,  who  looked  behind  him  as  though  for 
help,  then  stared  at  Leonard  once  more.  It  was 
evident  he  could  not  descry  the  face  of  his  visitor, 
against  the  light. 

"Oh I    Ah?"  he  mumbled. 

Leonard  began  to  close  the  door,  but  leaned 
half  way  in,  smiling. 

"Will  you  give  your  friend  a  message?"  he 
said.  "Mr.  Corsant's  compliments,  and  best 
wishes  for  a  pleasant  walk  home  again.  Mr. 
Corsant  will  be  at  the  same  hotel  where  he  was 
last  night. — Oh,  and  will  you  remember?  Tell 
him,  Taffy  came  to  my  house  and  stole  a  marrow- 
bone." 

The  man  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  stood  waver- 


96  FERNSEED 

ing,  uncertain  whether  to  charge  forward  or  run 
back. 

Leonard  did  not  wait,  but  closed  the  door. 

On  the  causeway  he  stopped  long  enough  to 
throw  their  saddles  into  a  pool  of  marsh-water; 
then  he  ran  on,  chuckling,  through  the  fog  which 
closed  and  swept  away  all  trace  of  things  behind. 


IX 


Early  next  morning,  as  Leonard  came  out 
from  breakfast,  he  found  Mrs.  Merle,  her  Mal- 
tese cat,  the  bullfinch,  and  the  bull-terrier  forming 
a  family  group  on  the  doorstep.  In  bright  sun- 
shine near  by,  George  Grayland  stood  talking. 

"Yes.  We'll  have  rain.  Good  morning,  sir." 
He  glanced  up  and  made  a  slight  motion  with 
one  hand,  a  forward  snap  of  the  forefinger.  Most 
men  would  have  failed  to  see,  or  disregarded;  but 
Corsant  happened  to  know  it  for  an  old  sign, 
which  inquires:  "How  are  you?" 

"Good  morning,"  he  replied,  and  with  spread 
fingers  of  both  hands  "threw  a  chest,"  in  brief 
pantomime  to  say:  "Very  well  indeed." 

"Now  I'd  give  a  deal,  George,"  declared  Mrs. 
Merle,  "to  know  how  you  foretell  weather  so 
true.  Rain?  Why,  there's  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky." 

Grayland  laughed. 

"The  sheep  are  all  gobbling  their  breakfast," 

97 


98  FERNSEED 

said  he,  "as  if  to  catch  a  train.  Skylarks  a-singing 
wet,  too.  And  right  there  by  your  feet" — He 
pointed  down  at  the  cat,  who  hooked  her  paw 
rhythmically  over  one  ear — "see  Old  Lady  Maltee 
scrub  her  face  for  rain.  No  common  sunshiny 
wash,  that;  no  lick  and  promise,  but  solid  work. 
Your  garden  will  be  wet  before  evening,  sure. — 
IVe  a  chit  here  for  you,  sir." 

He  offered  an  unsealed  envelope. 

"Come  Into  the  garden,  Maud,"  said  Leonard, 
taking  It.  "Fd  like  to  talk  with  you.  Have  you 
time?" 

In  the  arbor,  where  the  dog  and  the  superan- 
nuated pet  lamb  joined  them,  the  two  men  sat 
down  for  private  conference.  Grayland  seemed 
very  wide  awake  and  cheerful. 

"Where,"  asked  Leonard,  "did  you  learn  Injun 
sign  language?" 

"Your  country.  Lived  among  'em  once,"  re- 
plied the  other  briefly.  "But  that's  old.  Your 
letter's  new.  Go  on,  read  It.  I  made  him  think 
he  wanted  to  go  away  for  a  week.  It  took  some 
doing,  but  he  never  suspected  me." 

George  lighted  a  time-blackened  briar  pipe, 
and  smoked  thoughtfully  while  his  friend  read  the 
letter,  first  to  himself,  then  aloud. 


FERNSEED  99 

"My  dear  Mr,  Leonard  Corsant : 

"It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  learn  whose 
jacket  I  had  been  wearing,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
meet  again  soon.  Grayland,  who  brings  you  this 
hurried  note,  will  explain  that  I  am  off  to  town 
for  a  few  days.  If  it  is  not  asking  you  to  bore 
yourself  too  much,  won't  you  come  up  and  camp 
here  meanwhile?  A  dull  enough  house,  but  you 
might  find  It  interesting  in  spots.  Grayland  would 
look  after  you  well. 

**Au  revoir,  and  do  let  me  find  you  at  the  house  ? 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"Laurence  Corsant.'* 
"Monday,  P.  M." 

There  followed  a  galloping  scrawl  of  post- 
script: 

"You  might  even  keep  an  eye  on  George  for 
me.  Tell  him  by  all  the  ear-marks  he  Is  about  to 
break  loose  again." 

The  conspirators,  in  their  honeysuckle  bower, 
grinned  at  each  other. 

"Catch  a  weasel  asleep,"  said  George. 
"Boasted  too  early,  didn't  I? — ^You'll  come?" 


loo  FERN    SEED 

**If  you  still  want  me."  Leonard  put  away  the 
note,  and  brought  out  two  other  documents.  "Fair 
exchange:  here's  more  news.  Do  you  know  a 
place  called  the  Bottle  of  Hay?" 

George  nodded. 

"Smells  like  a  rabbit  hutch,"  he  testified. 

"The  same.  Well,  yesterday  afternoon  while 
that  note  was  being  written,"  said  Leonard,  "I 
met  a  couple  of  men  there." 

He  went  on  to  describe  them.  His  hearer,  lean- 
ing back  in  a  garden  chair,  watched  him  with 
eyes  half  closed  but  far  from  drowsy. 

"That's  our  pair.  Talking  bad  French,  eh? 
They  would.  Your  little  fat  greaser,  he's  a 
Levantlnish  mongrel  of  some  sort.  Four  and 
twenty  blackbirds,  all  different,  in  his  pedigree. 
Called  himself  Kamsa  last,  but  'answers  to  Hi 
or  to  any  loud  cry.'  He's  second  fiddle.  Your 
friend  from  GIno's  cafe  Is  the  boss:  what  I  call 
a  professional  traitor,  playing  both  ends,  then 
selling  out  either  way,  or  to  third  party.  Him 
and  Kamsa  the  Locust.     That's  the  pair." 

Murmuring  thus,  George  kept  his  black  briar 
alight  and  missed  not  a  word  In  what  followed,  the 
tale  of  yesterday's  performance  at  the  Bottle  of 
Hay.  As  it  progressed,  his  eyes  opened  full  and 
sparkling.    He  slapped  his  thigh. 


FERN    SEED  loi 

"Spoilt  the  Egyptians  good!"  he  exclaimed, 
greatly  approving.  "Off  with  their  chariot  wheels, 
so  they  drave  heavy.  You'll  do,  my  son!"  And 
he  gave  a  curt  nod,  that  seemed  to  bind  their  al- 
liance for  good  and  all,  to  drive  the  last  nail 
home.     "It  runs  in  the  family." 

"While  getting  back  my  own,"  continued  Leon- 
ard, "these  things — ah — fetched  loose  and  came 
away  in  my  hand."  He  tossed  over  one  of  his 
documents,  an  eight-page  letter  closely  written  in 
purple  ink.  "Female  fist.  Begins  like  a  love 
letter,  so  I  didn*t  go  Into  it." 

Grayland  had  no  such  scruple.  He  read  care- 
fully from  date  to  signature. 

"Tender,"  he  growled;  and  again — "Tosh!" 
His  lips  curled  scornfully  round  the  pipe-stem. 
"Some  women  will  take  up  with  anything — 
Well,"  he  concluded,  folding  the  pages  away,  "It 
meant  a  lot  to  her,  poor  fool,  but  nothing  to  me. 
My  chief  had  better  study  it. — ^What's  your  next 
trick?" 

Corsant  passed  over  to  him  a  sheet  of  parch- 
ment-like paper,  blank  on  one  side,  covered  on  the 
other  with  line  upon  line  of  queer  marks,  and 
stamped  in  one  corner  with  a  bright  red  thumb- 
print. 

"Looks  like  short-hand,  done  In  printer's  ink," 


io3^''*;;       ;  >fiR:I^,;S:EED 

said  he.  "The  thumb  daubed  with  an  oily  ver- 
milion paste,  you  see.  Chinamen  use  something 
of  the  kind " 

But  Grayland  cut  short  all  this,  bounding  up- 
right and  strewing  the  lawn  with  sparks,  ashes, 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe  in  one  direction,  the  bitt  in 
another. 

*'YouVe  done  it  now,  boy !"  Glee,  triumph,  and 
sly  calculation  strove  in  his  dark  face.  "Good 
on  your  old  curly  top,  go  to  the  head  of  the  class! 
O  Brave  We  I  Son,  youVe  turned  the  cat  in  the 
pan  I" 

Next  moment  he  had  subsided  again,  thinking 
hard,  brooding  over  the  paper. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  asked  Leonard. 

"No  shorthand,  anyway,"  said  George. 
"Arabic,  maybe.  Wrote  by  Turks,  Armenians, 
or  Kurds,  or  whey,  Moabites,  Amalekites, — don't 
matter  a  dump.  We  can't  read  it,  but  your  cousin 
Laurence  can.  Here's  the  point,  though.  What- 
ever it  is,  whatever  it  says,  our  friend  kept  it  on 
his  person,  next  his  hide.  He'd  give  that  hide  to 
get  it  back,  probably.  Because  why?  I'll  tell 
you,  son :  because  he  and  his  Kamsa  have  travelled 
many  a  hundred  mile  to  lay  hand  on  just  another 
sheet  o'  blessed  polygots,  heteroglyphs — drat  the 
word,  you  know  what  I  mean — as  these  figgers 


FERN    SEED  103 

here.  In  plain  language,  my  chief  holds  the  mate 
to  this  very  writing.  They  want  it.  What  hap- 
pens? Why,  in  walks  you,  as  gay  as  Garrick, 
and  nips  their  own.  You  turned  the  cat  in  the 
pan.  And  I'd  have  give  a  double  tooth  to  be 
there  seeing  you.'* 

Grayland  rose,  and  tucked  the  sheet  of  paper 
carefully  into  a  pocket,  which  he  buttoned. 

"It  goes  home  now  this  minute  for  the  chief. 
I'll  stow  her  in  safe  hiding."  He  stooped  to  the 
grass,  and  assembled  the  parts  of  his  pipe.  "Will 
you  come  along?  Old  man  Merle  can  fetch  your 
bags  and  stuff  in  his  cart." 

"They're  not  quite  ready  for  moving,"  replied 
Leonard.     "Suppose  I  pack  and  join  you  later?" 

"Right  ho.  But  this  can't  wait,"  said  the  other, 
turning  to  go.  "Remember,  from  now  till  further 
notice  you're  Laurence  Corsant." 

"Very  well. — But  look  here,  George,  where  do 
I  live  when  I'm  at  home?" 

Grayland  gave  an  impatient  snort. 

"O  Lord,  that's  true!"  He  stood  fretting  and 
scowling.  "All  came  so  natural,  I  forgot  you 
never  lived  in  the  old  house.  How  to  map  you 
the  way?  River  runs  right  past  your  windows ;  but 
by  land,  all  them  lanes  and  blind  corners,  'tis  a 
maze,  a  Fair  Rosamund's  Bower  surely." 


104  FERNSEED 

"Trot  along,"  said  Leonard.    "I'll  row  up.'' 

"Good  as  wheat!"  cried  his  friend.  "Only  big 
stone  house  to  starboard,  and  Fll  wave  to  you." 

Without  a  sign  of  haste,  yet  light  and  swift  as 
any  creature  of  the  woods,  Grayland  seemed  to 
cross  the  lawn  at  a  stride  and  vanish  while  still 
talking. 

Noon  had  nearly  come  before  Corsant  was 
ready  to  follow  him.  Old  Ashkettle's  daughter, 
a  taciturn  broad  maiden,  with  hair  the  color  of 
oakum,  dwelt  under  the  Ship  on  Ways  In  a  cellar 
full  of  curly  shavings,  of  oars,  paint-kegs,  row- 
locks, ring-bolts,  lumps  of  aged  sponge,  grease, 
double  blocks,  rope,  and  cobwebs.  Among  all 
these  and  many  fragments,  in  darkness  that 
smelled  of  clean  chips  and  turpentine,  Miss  Ash- 
kettle  drudged  about  moping  like  a  stalwart  Mel- 
ancholia who  cared  naught  for  the  world  outside, 
pondered  the  futility  of  all  handiwork,  and  grieved 
to  see  so  much  of  Its  lumber  filling  her  cave.  She 
said  never  a  word,  took  no  heed  of  time.  When 
at  last  after  immense  deliberation  she  had  chosen 
an  armful  of  gear,  and  beckoned  this  tiresome 
young  man  with  her  chin,  It  was  therefore  surpris- 
ing to  find  her  boats  the  model  of  readiness  and 
trim  order.  Tight,  slender,  dazzling  with  var- 
nish, they  lined  the  water,  glossy  as  brand  new 


FERNSEED  105 

toys.  The  spoon  oars  had  their  blades  painted 
a  brilliant  red;  spotless  cushions  lay  on  the 
thwarts;  and  at  their  sterns,  gilded  scroll  by  gilded 
scroll  bore  the  names  of  Daisy,  Lily,  Violet,  Pansy, 
Hazel. 

*'How  very — neat,"  declared  the  passenger. 
Coy,  he  had  nearly  said,  for  the  flotilla  seemed 
almost  to  giggle.     ^'I'll  take  Daisy  by  the  week." 

Miss  Ashkettle  cast  off,  coiled  his  painter  like 
a  man-of-war's  man,  wrote  his  name  in  a  pocket 
book,  folded  her  arms,  and  watched  him  row  off. 
The  Daisy  might  have  been  Charon's  barge,  and 
she  an  oakum-headed  sibyl  who  took  dreary  joy 
in  knowing  he  could  never  come  her  way  again. 

Round  a  bend,  he  escaped  that  dark  influence, 
and  soon  forgot.  Among  green  hill  fields,  a  sil- 
very layer  of  tide  stole  up  broadening  to  immerge 
a  curve  here  of  sand-bar,  a  tiny  cape  there  of 
brookside  gravel.  The  Daisy  drew  little  water, 
yet  grounded  so  often  in  clear  shallows  where  an 
oar  could  barely  dip,  that  he  ceased  trying  to  row, 
fended  her  off,  and  let  her  drift.  The  shores, 
with  mirrored  grass  and  flowers  under  them, 
floated  down  in  a  trance.  Here  and  there  a  gull 
sat  on  the  river  and  squalled  out  wicked  com- 
plaints that  rang  along  the  surface  with  whining 
overtones;   once   his   red   spoon-blade   grazed   a 


io6  FERN    SEED 

salmon  that  lay  torpid  on  bottom;  and  for  some 
time  a  mussel-shell  lined  with  blue  nacre,  freighted 
with  grains  of  dry  sand  and  one  pearl  of  sea- 
water,  sailed  alongside  him  like  an  elfin  cargo- 
boat,  bobbing  In  the  ripples  of  the  undlscernlble 
motion.  Cool  salt  breaths  arose  to  temper  the 
sunshine.  But  as  he  drifted  inland,  these  were 
the  only  reminders  of  the  sea,  which  lay  hidden 
behind  the  hills.  Fringes  of  gorse  on  two  green 
interlocking  headlands  formed  as  it  were  a  giant 
pair  of  outspread  wings,  blazing  golden.  A  dark 
cloud  stretched  between,  solid  from  tip  to  tip. 

"George  was  right,"  thought  the  oarsman. 
"There's  rain  coming  ashore." 

Hot  sunlight  filled  the  next  reacK,  however, 
and  the  next.  High  in  air  against  blue  sky,  a  man 
driving  two  horses  harrowed  the  crest  of  a  great 
red  field,  with  snowy  gulls  flying  behind  him  or 
waddling  after  worms  among  the  clods.  Tree- 
tops  drew  slowly  across  this  picture.  The  river 
narrowed.  Banks  of  foliage  made  a  winding  cor- 
ridor, quiet  except  where  oozy  reflected  brightness 
trembled  and  poured  like  misty  fire  through  the 
under  sides  of  the  leaves.  The  channel  grew 
deeper,  in  pools  motionless  to  the  eye.  Leonard 
could  now  row. 

He  came  slowly  past  a  point  where  beech  woods 


FERNSEED  107 

ran  down  to  the  water,  when  suddenly  a  voice 
hailed  him. 

**0h,  I  say  I  Could  you  help  me  for  a  mo- 
ment?" 

It  was  a  girVs  voice,  near  by.  He  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  Stranded,  close  ahead,  lay  a  var- 
nished boat  like  his  own,  bearing  the  red  oar 
blades  of  Ashkettle  and  the  name  Rose.  She  was 
empty.  He  ran  ashore  below  her,  and  jumped 
out. 

"She  wouldn't  shove  off  again,  you  see,"  con- 
tinued the  voice.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  voice 
indeed. 

Blue-bells  carpeted  the  grove.  From  water's 
edge  as  far  as  he  could  see  within  the  trees,  blue- 
bells formed  one  shining  slope  unbroken.  A  girl 
stood  among  them.  Her  white  dress  glowed  with 
their  color,  half  way  up  to  her  waist,  as  if  tinged 
with  light  through  stained  glass.  Beech  leaves 
flickered  round  her  hair  in  a  lambency  of  green. 

"Sorry  to  stop  you,"  she  said. 

Leonard  caught  himself  staring.  It  was  the  girl 
he  had  seen  with  George,  a  week  or  more  ago  in 
the  White  Hart  coffee-room.  He  remembered 
those  large  dark  eyes,  that  look  of  friendly  mis- 
chief. 

"Mr.  Corsant,  I  am  well  punished."    The  mis^ 


io8  FERNSEED 

chief  had  gone,  or  changed,  he  could  not  tell  which. 
*'rm  well  punished  for  trespassing  on  your  land." 

She  spoke  with  frankness,  rather  gravely.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  shifting  translucence  overhead 
that  made  a  hint  of  mockery  seem  to  dart  in  her 
glance,  hide  and  seek. 

"All  the  blue  under  here  looked  so  lovely  that 
I  couldn't  resist." 

Was  he  supposed  to  know  this  colored  wood- 
sprite?  If  so,  how  well?  Playing  for  time  and 
safety,  Leonard  examined  her  boat. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  you  know,"  he  declared. 
"Her  stem's  against  a  rock." 

"Yes.    I  tried  to  lift  her  round  it." 

He  did  so,  though  the  Rose  weighed  heavier 
than  she  looked.  When  about  to  launch  her,  he 
became  aware  of  a  sudden  coolness,  a  darkening, 
a  rustle  in  the  air;  and  looking  up,  saw  the  grove 
clouded,  the  lower  end  of  the  river  lashed  white 
by  sheets  of  rain  that  swept  nearer.  Grayland's 
prophecy  was  coming  true,  coming  fast. 

Leonard  hauled  the  Rose  inshore  again,  hoisted 
her  nose  on  the  bank,  turned  her  keel  up,  and 
laid  her  cushions  on  the  ground  below. 

"You'd  best  take  shelter,"  said  he,  pointing, 
"till  that's  gone  by." 


FERN    SEED  109 

The  girl  came  out  from  her  beeches,  and  looked 
at  the  gray  curtain  that  advanced  hissing. 

"Oh  I"  she  cried  in  dismay.  *'I  should  have 
been  off  long  ago  I" 

She  jumped  lightly  down  from  the  bank,  crept 
under  the  gunwale,  and  disposed  herself  in  a  few 
neat  whisks  and  tucks.  Leonard  brought  his  old 
brown  oilskin,  which  he  placed  as  lap-robe.  The 
first  drops  were  now  spattering. 

"This  is  jolly!"  She  smiled.  Her  black  eyes 
danced.  "But  aren't  you  coming  under  my  roof? 
— ^What  nonsense !     Plenty  of  room." 

Most  willing  and  yet  unwilling,  Leonard  obeyed 
and  crawled  beneath  the  lower  end  of  the  boat. 
Rain  drummed  on  the  strakes,  threaded  the  gun- 
wales with  silver,  then  slid  into  gleaming  points, 
then  dripped,  then  trickled.  Rain  hopped  on  the 
shore  like  hailstones.  His  companion  sat  clasp- 
ing her  knees  under  the  oilskin,  which  covered  her 
to  the  throat.  A  tuft  of  ferns,  crushed  and 
doubled  inside  the  bow,  hung  over  her  head.  It 
cost  him  a  cramp  in  the  neck  to  see  her,  for  a 
thwart  intervened;  but  somehow  the  cost  did  not 
count.  Here  in  wet  shadow,  muffled  by  his  old 
slicker,  this  girl  had  a  knack  of  being  prettier  than 
when,  just  now,  sunshine  had  steeped  her  from 
head  to  foot  among  blue-bells  and  beech  leaves. 


no  FERN    SEED 

The  only  discomfort  was,  he  crouched  here  as  a 
pretender.     They  kept  silence  for  a  while. 

"Speaking  sub  Rosa,"  she  said,  "I  think  this  is 
jolly!" 

Leonard  agreed.  She  had  a  faint  downward 
smile  which  came  and  went  as  if  not  quite  under 
control,  which  he  liked,  but  which  kept  him  un- 
easy. 

"You  must  have  been  glad  to  come  home." 

Now  here  looms  trouble,  thought  the  pre- 
tender. Why  the  deuce  hadn't  George  coached 
him  a  bit? 

"Weren't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course.    Glad,  yes,  indeed." 

Those  large  clear  eyes  regarded  him  from  a 
fathomless  depth. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Becky?" 

He  would  have  answered  at  once,  had  he  known 
who  or  what  Becky  was, — a  girl  to  be  married,  a 
runaway  parrot  to  be  found,  or  a  horse  he  had 
talked  of  selling. 

"Tell  me  if  it's  none  of  my  affair,"  she  begged 
suddenly,  as  though  piqued.  "I  didn't  mean 
to " 

"No,  no.  Becky?  No,  no,  not  at  all,"  said 
he.  "Yes,  Becky. — ^You  see,  I  haven't  quite  made 
up  my  mind." 


FERN    SEED  iii 

The  girl  wondered  at  him. 

"Haven't  you  really?" 

A  wrong  answer :  it  must  have  been. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  rejoined,  turning  stubborn. 

The  rain  beat  upon  the  Rose,  dripped,  and 
splashed  without,  though  not  so  heavily  now.  The 
silence  grew  long  within,  and  to  Leonard  more 
and  more  distasteful.  That  fine  spirited  young 
face  opposite  him,  lively,  delicate  in  coloring  yet 
wholesome,  had  become  downcast.  For  a  moment 
he  feared  she  was  going  to  cry. 

"It's  not  like  you,  Laurence,  to  be  so  grumpy 
with  your — with  old  friends." 

So  then,  thought  Laurence  the  False,  he  knew 
her  very  well.  He  must  speak  comforting  things. 
How  could  he?  But  speak  or  be  silent,  either 
way,  there  was  no  guessing  what  he  might  let 
Laurence  the  True  in  for.  She  was  trembling. 
He  could  see  the  folds  of  oilskin  quiver  and  the 
fern  that  touched  her  head.  A  craven  impulse 
told  him,  if  she  did  weep,  to  crawl  out  into  the 
rain.  He  even  glanced  that  way.  The  rain  had 
stopped,  the  sun  shone. 

"Please  don't  cry,"  said  Leonard  earnestly.  "I 
can't  bear  to  have  you  think  so.  If  I  said  or  did 
anything  to  hurt  you,  please  forget.  Or  anything 
strange,  anything  not  like — unlike  myself,  don't 


112  FERN    SEED 

you  know?  I  can't  explain  it  If  there  was.  Not 
now.  But  some  day  you  may  understand.  Soon, 
I  hope." 

He  stopped,  In  distress  between  too  much  said 
and  too  little. 

She  had  turned  her  face  away,  and  was  plucking 
a  fern  tip  caught  in  her  hair. 

^Tm  quite  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  declared 
abruptly.     "Quite." 

Next  moment  she  was  out  in  the  sunlight. 
Neither  spoke  again  till  the  Rose  was  righted  and 
afloat. 

"If  you're  going  down  the  river,  take  my  oil- 
skin with  you,"  said  Leonard,  and  forestalling  an 
evident  refusal,  added:  "Fm  not  far  from — from 
home,  and  you'll  catch  more  showers  on  your 
way." 

The  tree  tops  downstream  glittered,  but  above 
them  came  rolling  another  band  of  rain  clouds. 

"You  can  leave  the  old  thing  at  Ashkettle's," 
he  urged. 

The  girl  thanked  him,  and  stepped  aboard. 
Taking  her  sculls,  she  discovered  the  tip  of  fern 
still  in  her  hand.  She  made  as  if  to  fling  it  over- 
side, but  paused,  and  looked  up  quickly. 

"Fern  seed.     Here."     Holding  out  her  hand. 


FERN    SEED  113 

she  dropped  the  torn  leaf  Into  his.  "For  luck. 
The  receipt  of  fern  seed,  to  walk  Invisible." 

With  that  she  gave  way,  pulling  a  very  clean 
pair  of  oars.  A  branch  jutted  out  to  hide  her  and 
the  Rose;  but  before  turning  It  she  stopped,  backed 
water  for  an  instant,  and  looking  Leonard  in  the 
face,  quietly  spoke. 

"It  wasn't  crying.  It  was  laughing.  That's 
what  Fm  ashamed  of,  for  I  do  wish  you  luck.  It's 
a  most  sporting  thing  youVe  undertaken." 

Her  blades  flashed  again.  The  Rose  slipped 
behind  the  bough. 


Round  the  next  bend  a  little  green  valley 
opened  shining,  refreshed  with  rain.  Straight 
almost  as  a  canal,  and  quite  as  placid,  the  river 
ran  toward  a  vanishing  point  under  the  low  arch 
of  a  bridge.  Three  swans  rose  noisily  from  the 
water  and  flew  in  line  abreast  upstream  with  a 
great  rushing  sound  of  wings.  Even  as  they  went, 
their  whiteness  darkened,  a  cloud  and  another 
burst  of  rain  driving  after  them.  Drenched  while 
he  rowed,  Corsant  peered  up  through  the  shower 
and  saw  at  his  left  a  gray  stone  house,  that  looked 
down  a  hillside  of  rough  lawn  dotted  with  shrubs 
and  trees.  From  one  of  its  many  broad  windows 
fluttered  something  white, — a  towel  that  flapped 
vigorously  and  then  was  whisked  indoors.  He 
pulled  his  right  oar,  and  headed  the  Daisy  for  the 
nearest  gravel. 

Meanwhile  he  neither  felt  the  rain  nor  con- 
sidered his  arrival. 

"She  knew  me  all  the  time !"  he  thought.  "Saw 
114 


FERN    SEED  115 

through  me,  that  girl  did,  and  took  her  revenge 
teasing." 

Down  over  the  wet  grass,  as  he  landed,  his 
friend  George  came  striding, — a  pair  of  long  legs 
active  under  a  huge  umbrella. 

"Wet  but  welcome!  Hop  under  grandma's 
gamp.'* 

Leonard  made  his  painter  fast  to  a  root,  but 
disregarded  the  invitation,  and  stood  musing  in 
the  rain. 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  buy  the  good  ship  Rose,^^ 
he  declared,  "for  a  souvenir. — George,  who  is 
the  prettiest  girl  you  ever  saw?  She's  a  young 
witch,  lives  among  blue-bells,  and  gave  me  this." 
He  held  out  a  wet,  crumpled  green  leaf,  the  fern 
tip.    "You  know  her.    What's  her  name?" 

Grayland  viewed  him  askance  with  wicked  black 
eyes. 

"No  weather  for  day-dreams,  this.  In  with 
you!  Come  in.  Under  the  paraploo,  my  son." 
And  hooking  arms,  George  elbowed  him  up  the 
bank.  "Get  dry  first  at  the  fire,  then  you  can 
write  her  a  poem;  or  sing  her  a  serenade,  I'll  lend 
you  a  concertina ;  or  you  can  carve  some  nice  fat 
hearts  on  your  trees  roundabout.  Plenty  of  good 
smooth  bark." 

Leonard  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  these  rough 


ii6  FERN    SEED 

conceits,  though  he  returned  her  talisman  to  his 
pocket. 

"She  called  it  the  receipt  of  fern  seed,  and  told 
me  we  might  need  to  walk  invisible.  She  knew 
all  about  us ;  knew  I  wasn^t  Laurence ;  knew  what 
we're  both  up  to.     Called  it  sporting." 

His  companion  halted,  glared,  and  breathed  out 
something  like  a  curse. 

"Young  devil,  she  guessed  it!  Might  *a* 
known." 

"Yes  ?    Then  who  was  she  ?"  Leonard  repeated. 

Grayland  shook  his  head.  Mirth  and  chagrin 
seemed  to  underlie  the  frown  with  which  he  kept 
his  countenance. 

"No  telling,"  he  grunted.  "I  don't  know  all 
the  young  women  round  here;  been  away  too 
long." 

"You  were  talking  horse  with  her  at  the  White 
Hart,  less  than  a  fortnigfht  ag:o." 

"No,"  said  George  blandly.  "Couldn't  have 
done.     Never  was  there  in  my  life." 

"But  man,  I  saw  and  heard  you !" 

"Day-dreaming  again."  George  started  for- 
ward. "Impossible.  Flat  Never  knew  a  girl 
whose  opinion  of  a  horse  was  worth  listening  to." 

The  umbrella — a  monstrous  lank-ribbed  tent  of 
rusty  black  cotton — hid  all  the  world  except  a 


FERN    SEED  117 

travelling  circle  of  downpour  and  of  rough  lawn, 
unkempt  and  weedy.  As  they  climbed,  Corsant 
had  nothing  to  do  but  study  his  friend  at  close 
range.  He  learned  very  little :  that  George  was 
wearing  Indoor  clothes,  dark,  sober,  sleek-fitting, 
which  made  his  face  look  all  the  more  restless 
and  untamed;  that  George  had  been  lying  just 
now;  and  that  however  long  they  might  discuss 
this  phantom  of  the  blue-bell  grove,  George  would 
calmly  abstain  from  telling  truth  about  her.  They 
mounted  the  hill,  therefore,  In  silence. 

"Here's  your  old  house  for  you."  Grayland 
suddenly  tilted  back  his  umbrella.  "How  do  you 
like  It?" 

Overgrown  shrubs,  and  vines  pelted  with  rain, 
hid  much  of  the  lower  storey;  but  above  these,  the 
weathered  gray  forehead  of  the  house  rose  clear, 
overlooking  the  men,  the  hillside  lawn,  and  the 
river  with  a  kind  of  benignity  almost  human.  It 
was  not  a  large  house ;  yet  the  two  upper  tiers  of 
windows,  broad,  nobly  framed  and  outlined  In 
carven  stone,  gave  It  a  spacious  air  that  seemed 
better  than  grandeur;  and  Its  plainness,  thought 
Leonard,  warmed  him  like  the  discovery  of  some 
new  virtue  in  an  old  friend. 

"Ever  so  much,"  he  answered. 

The  umbrella  descended.    They  moved  on,  fol- 


ii8  FERN    SEED 

lowing  round  the  house  a  path  covered  with  weeds 
and  grass. 

"By  the  front  door  you  come  in,**  said  George. 
"We'lldoitallfitty,  eh?" 

But  in  the  upper  garden  Leonard  paused,  and 
dodging  out  from  their  grandmotherly  extin- 
guisher, looked  about  him.  Red  valerian  had  run 
wild  here,  and  been  trimmed  or  cleared  into  rude 
borders.  A  driveway,  lately  weeded  and  raked, 
curved  off  to  end  among  dripping  trees,  where  an 
iron  gate  stood  half  open. 

"Why,  that's  Peacock's  gate,"  said  Leonard. 
"Were  there  chains  across,  before?  Then  this  is 
the  house  Merle  brought  me  to,  the  first  night!" 

"Of  course  he  did."  George  stood  grinning. 
"And  you  sat  in  his  cart  and  threw  cold  water  on 
him.  You  looked  at  your  old  home,  says  Merle, 
neither  glad  nor  sorry,  like  a  dog  at  his  father's 
funeral." 

This  landward  front  of  the  house,  being  on  a 
crest,  had  one  storey  less  than  the  river  side.  Its 
left-hand  corner  stood  imbedded  in  a  great  rock 
high  as  a  man's  head,  and  patched  with  turf  where 
cranny  flowers  hung  trembling  in  the  rain.  But- 
tressed thus,  the  house  appeared  to  hold  fast  by 
mother  earth,  hewn  stone  cleaving  to  its  native 
hilL 


FERN    SEED  ^119 

"Come."  George  opened  the  front  door,  in 
the  carved  frame  of  which  wall-flowers  were 
growing.     "Don't  stand  here  and  soak." 

He  caught  Leonard  by  the  arm,  pulled,  and 
brought  him  Indoors  on  the  run,  like  Christian 
escaping  arrows  at  the  wIcket-gate.  Indeed,  the 
rain  fell  now  like  bright  arrows  shot  aslant.  Their 
misty  light  entered  with  the  men,  and  echoes  of 
splashing  murmured  In  the  room.  It  was  a  long, 
deep  room,  at  first  sight  gloomy;  under  a  high 
mantel  blazed  a  fire  of  boughs;  and  the  ruddy 
flicker  of  this,  thwarting  rather  than  joining  the 
cold  light  from  windows  blurred  with  water, 
showed  only  here  and  there  a  glancing  line  of 
brightness  on  old  furniture,  and  sank  without  re- 
flection, as  though  quenched.  Into  the  sombre  oak- 
panelled  walls. 

"Well,  here  you  are,"  said  Grayland;  then 
looked  sharply  at  his  guest.     "What's  wrong?" 

"One  moment.  I  can't — I  can't  find  the  words." 
Leonard  stood  In  a  daze.  "Walt  till  my  eyes  get 
house-broken." 

As  they  did  so,  he  became  aware  of  other  ob- 
jects in  the  room, — dark  portraits  along  the  pan- 
els, dull  gilding  touched  with  firelight,  the  backs 
of  tall  books,  a  staircase  that  mounted  under  a 
pointed  arch.    But  these  and  all  details  were  lost 


I20  FERN    SEED 

in  one  overwhelming  impression,  a  whole  stranger 
than  any  of  its  parts,  because  not  strange  at  all. 
His  eyesight  understood  it,  his  tongue  refused  to 
explain.  Without  warning  he  had  stepped  from 
another  man's  garden  into  a  room  peculiarly,  mys- 
teriously his  own.  Everything  here,  color,  form, 
proportion,  the  carving  above  the  panels,  the  stair- 
case arch,  the  conflict  of  subdued  lights  and  the 
way  they  fell — everything  was  as  it  should  be, 
rightly  placed,  in  the  right  direction.  So  it  had 
always  been,  and  so,  never  having  seen,  he  had 
always  known  it  by  some  remembrance  lost  until 
now. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  said  George.  "A  chill? 
Yes,  you  did.    You  shivered.    Come  to  the  fire." 

Leonard  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  there, 
but  standing  on  the  hearth,  remained  at  gaze. 

"The  trouble  is,  I  could  find  my  way  about  here 
blindfold,"  said  he.  "It's  as  though — it's  like  a 
place  where  I'd  lived  a  lifetime,  when  I  was  some- 
body else." 

"Right  ho.  You  are  somebody  else."  George 
leaned  his  umbrella  under  a  portrait,  and  left  it 
to  form  a  brown  puddle  like  prune-juice  on  the 
floor.     "Nothing  to  worry  about,  then." 

He  stripped  off  Leonard's  coat,  spread  it  over 
the  high  back  of  a  chair  to  dry,  brought  a  footstool. 


FERN    SEED  121 

bade  him  sit  between  the  andirons,  fetched  an  old 
loo-table,  swung  down  Its  top  and  bolted  it,  then 
with  long  silent  strides  was  gone  from  the  room. 
Leonard,  his  back  steaming  in  the  grateful  blaze, 
hugged  his  knees  upon  the  footstool  and  won- 
dered. 

^'George   turned  left  through  that  door,"  he, 
thought,  "and  I  knew  it  beforehand." 

He  sat  mooning,  with  sounds  of  the  fire  and 
the  rain  for  company.  Along  the  panels,  at  a 
height  of  seven  feet  or  so  from  the  floor,  a  series 
of  carvings  took  his  eye.  They  were  simple,  rather 
well  done  and  well  varied,  no  wise  remarkable 
but  for  slight  quaintness  in  design.  One  of  them, 
however,  in  the  darkest  corner  on  his  right  toward 
the  garden,  broke  all  rules  of  the  pattern  and  stood 
out  grotesque  as  a  gargoyle.  Too  lazy  to  rise, 
Leonard  peered  at  it  for  some  time  before  con- 
cluding that  it  was  not  an  imp's  head  in  a  night- 
cap, but  a  queer  little  image  of  the  DeviPs  Nose, 
the  sea-rock  he  had  swum  through.  There  in 
miniature,  holes  and  all,  It  clung  to  the  wall  like 
a  wasp's  nest,  ugly  and  misshapen. 

"What's  that  doing  here?"  he  asked,  when 
George  returned. 

"The  good  old  Nose?  Why  not?"  Grayland 
bore  in,  and  set  on  the  table,  a  vast  tray  covered 


122  FERN    SEED 

with  bread  and  butter,  Cambridge  brawn,  half  a 
ham,  gooseberries,  cream,  and  bottles  of  soda. 
"Why  not?  That  was  carved  many  a  year  ago, 
that  and  the  rest,  by  the  man  who  made  your  iron 
gates,  I've  heard  tell,  and  all  the  jokers  up  aloft 
in  church." 

While  answering  he  went  out  again,  presently 
to  come  back  with  a  tantalus  and  a  tumbler  that 
looked  as  long  as  an  ale-yard. 

"Once  was  a  story  about  that  carving,"  he  con- 
tinued. "What  to  signify,  nobody  knows.  Some- 
thing weVe  all  forgot.  Bad  luck,  or  good  luck. 
Some  old  wives'  tale." 

Into  the  mighty  tumbler  he  poured  a  hero's 
dram  of  whiskey,  and  when  he  had  mixed  it, 
came  to  the  hearth. 

"Down  her,  if  you  please.'* 

In  doing  all  he  moved  like  a  zealous,  grave,  and 
highly  trained  man-servant;  his  voice,  always  pleas- 
ant, he  seemed  to  lower  when  indoors;  and  now 
after  placing  a  chair  and  seating  Leonard  by  table 
and  tray,  he  stood  at  hand,  attentive,  ready  for 
orders. 

"Come  join  me." 

"I'm  only  caretaker  here." 

"Hang  it,  George,  sit  down!" 

He  did  so,  laughing. 


FERNSEED  123 

"Mr.  Laurence  couldn't  have  said  that  more 
like  himself,"  he  declared.  "You're  one  of  'em. 
The  same  sleepy  look  when  ruffled." 

He  sat  talking  while  his  guest  ate  and  drank. 
The  fire-light  played  on  his  han^dsome,  tawny  face, 
but  was  no  brighter  or  livelier  than  the  changes 
that  came  and  went  there  like  a  visible  running  ac- 
companiment to  his  thoughts.  Leonard  watched 
him,  pondered,  and  was  baffled  again  and  again. 
Whom  did  the  man  resemble  so  closely,  yet  with 
so  many  differences? 

"Ay,  who  is  it?"  George  suddenly  asked. 

"Why,  how  could  you  read  my  mind?"  said 
Leonard.  "How  did  you  guess  what  I  was  think- 
ing?" 

George  smiled,  rose,  and  darted  one  of  his 
wicked  cornerwise  glances. 

"It  was  revealed  to  me  in  a  dream,"  he  an- 
swered very  drily.  "I  must  go  fetch  wood  to  mend 
the  fire." 

He  went  out  grinning.  A  door  shut,  the  sound 
of  his  light  footsteps  passed  down  a  stairway 
somewhere,  the  fluttering  of  the  fire  and  the  splash 
of  rain  succeeded.  A  long  time  passed.  Then 
suddenly  the  light  footsteps  came  bounding  up- 
stairs, and  Grayland  reappeared  in  the  door.    He 


124  FERNSEED 

brought  no  wood,  but  carried  an  axe.  He  was 
frowning. 

"I  don't  savvy  this,"  he  announced  quietly. 
''Something  going  on  behind  our  back.  Come  over 
here,  will  you,  and  see  what  I  found." 

He  beckoned,  then  crossing  to  one  of  the  gar- 
den windows,  bent  his  head  and  fell  Into  a  close, 
workmanlike  scrutiny.  He  appeared  to  be  testing, 
with  his  thumb,  a  defect  in  the  head  of  his  axe. 


XI 


Leonard  followed  him  to  the  window. 

"What  do  you  make  of  It?"  said  George,  trac- 
ing with  his  thumb-nail  along  the  blade.  "What^s 
that  stuff?" 

Newly  ground,  the  axe  had  a  sharp  edge.  The 
brightness  of  this  was  overlaid  and  dimmed  by  a 
stain,  a  tinge  of  heliotrope  color  shading  into 
purple,  as  If  someone  had  brushed  the  steel  hur- 
riedly, on  both  sides,  with  changeable  Ink.  It 
felt  dry  to  the  touch.  ( 

"Juice,"  ventured  Corsant,  "or  sap." 

"Sap,  yes,"  replied  George  impatiently.  "But 
what  kind?  I  can't  remember,  can't  put  a  name 
to  it  again.  Sap  of  what  tree?"  The  question 
seemed  to  perplex  him  inordinately.  "Mark  you, 
not  a  soul  about  the  house  but  one  old  woman 
who's  cook  and  bed-maker;  she  goes  home  at 
night,  by  the  way.  This  axe  lay  where  I  put  it. 
I  always  keep  tools  proper,  in  place.  Who's  come 
and  tampered  with  It,  and  what  was  he  choppin'  ?" 

125 


126  FERN    SEED 

George  put  his  nose  to  the  blade. 

"No  smell,"  said  he. 

As  he  leaned  there  in  the  broad  old  window, 
frowning,  slowly  examining  the  tool  on  each  side, 
he  called  to  Leonard's  mind  another  graceful  per- 
son who  long  ago  "with  his  keener  eye  the  axe*s 
edge  did  try."  Lovelocks  and  a  court  dress  would 
have  made  him  a  figure  of  Vandyke's ;  his  face  be- 
longed to  an  earlier  century;  but  his  black  eyes 
were  sharper  than  any  king's.  Gradually  the 
wrinkles  left  his  forehead.  He  began  to  whistle 
Money  Musk  between  his  teeth,  and  dandle  the 
axe  In  time  with  that  jig. 

"Half  a  mo\  It's  coming  back."  His  thoughts 
also  had  reverted  to  the  past.  "When  I  was  a 
lad  and  worked  for  Lord  What's-name's  gardener 
on  the  Riviera — ^Walt.  Hold  hard.  Yes,  have- 
got.  Mimosa  juice.  Now  where  on  these 
grounds,  do  you  suppose,  can  there  be  any 
mimosa?" 

Grayland  hung  the  axe-head  over  his  shoulder, 
whistled  Money  Musk  again  in  the  same  muted 
fashion,  then  turned  and  smiled. 

"Let's  go  see."  It  was  plain  he  had  answered 
himself,  and  found  the  answer  to  his  liking. 
"Down  below,  if  I'm  not  sore  mistaken." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  door  by  which  he  had 


FERN    SEED  127 

been  coming  and  going,  thence  along  a  dark  pas- 
sage, through  some  darker  vaulted  hole  in  wain- 
scot, and  down  a  flight  of  blind  stone  stairs  that 
bent  continually  with  unexpected  crankings.  Cor- 
sant,  leaving  behind  in  the  great  room  that  sense 
which  it  had  evoked  of  things  familiar  and  direc- 
tions known,  groped  after  him  quite  lost,  down 
and  down,  stumbling,  guided  only  by  one  hand  or 
shoulder  on  the  walls.  At  the  stair-foot,  George 
unlocked  a  door.  They  stood  presently  in  a  damp, 
close  room,  bare,  and  dismal  in  a  greenish  twi- 
light. Three  small  windows  glimmered  in  a  row, 
obscured  without  by  grass  and  leaves. 

"Soon  learn,"  said  George. 

He  closed  the  door,  and  went  to  the  right-hand 
square  of  glass.  Like  the  other  two,  it  was  set 
at  about  the  level  of  his  chin.  He  reached  up  and 
struggled  with  the  catch. 

"Rusty.     Doubt  if  it's  this." 

The  fastening  yielded,  the  window  opened,  with 
a  series  of  aged  creaks.  Grayland  thrust  out  his 
hand. 

"Ouch  I  Holly."  Closing  that  window,  he 
moved  to  the  middle  one.  "We're  below  ground, 
you  understand.     These  look  riverwards." 

The  middle  square  came  open  harder  than  its 


128  FERN    SEED 

mate,  and  still  more  noisily.  Again  George  put 
his  arm  outdoors. 

"Yew." 

He  worried  the  second  groaning  frame  shut, 
hammered  Its  crazy  catch  into  place,  and  tried  the 
thir^. 

"Always  the  last  of  a  lot,"  he  complained;  then 
in  an  altered  voice,  cried:  "Hal-lol  My  breth- 
ren, I  should  say  so !" 

This  last  window  swung  In  easily  at  one  pull, 
without  a  sound.  A  light-green  feathery  spray, 
released  from  pressure  against  the  pane,  burst  in- 
ward nodding  and  sprinkling  the  men's  faces  with 
water. 

"Mimosa  for  you,"  said  Leonard. 

"Right  as  rain,"  replied  Grayland.  "Give  us  a 
leg  up.    I  thought  so." 

Mounting  his  friend's  knee,  he  poked  head  and 
shoulders  through  the  wet  leaves.  Leonard  heard 
his  arms  threshing  outdoors.  He  wriggled  In 
again  quickly,  hopped  to  the  floor,  and  dashed  rain 
from  his  face. 

"This  bough  was  cut  off  to  clear  the  window,'* 
he  reported.  "They  laid  all  back  pretty  near  in 
place." 

He  struck  a  match,  and  by  Its  flame  looked — so 
rapidly  that  Corsant  could  but  just  follow  his 


FERN    SEED  129 

glances — at  the  intruding  tuft  of  mimosa,  the  top 
of  the  window  frame,  Its  outer  edge,  the  catch, 
and  the  hinges. 

"Lately  cut.  Leaves  have  had  no  time  to  wilt." 
George  blew  out  match  and  closed  window. 
"Catch  pried  down  from  outside.  With  my  axe, 
dare  say.  Hinges  oiled,  catch  oiled,  bough  laid 
across  all  proper.  No,  son.  TheyM  never  take 
such  pains  if  they  weren't  coming  back.  Our 
friends,  think  you?  I'd  give  a  thick  un  to  be  sure 
it  was  them." 

"Fork  out,"  said  Leonard.  "Because  I  think 
I  know." 

"How?"  George  demanded  testily.  "What  did 
I  overlook?" 

His  ally  repaid  some  late  mystifications  by  grin- 
ning calmly. 

"Unless  your  old  bed-maker  you  spoke  of  has 
been  cooking  the  same."  Leonard  paused  to  keep 
him  waiting.  "It's  extremely  delicate.  But  surely 
you — perceive?     I  did.     I  smelt  'em  in  here." 

Grayland  tossed  up  his  head  and  sniffed.  The 
little  subterranean  room,  dark  as  a  crypt,  con- 
tained negative  odors  of  mould  and  dust  and  air- 
tight staleness;  but  through  these,  not  quite  gone 
though  very  faint,  a  vanishing  aura  of  something 
positive,  the  smell  of  onions. 


I30  FERNSEED 

"Your  dear  wayside  posies  in  his  tunic!"  said 
George,  solemnly.  "The  precious  little  stinkards ! 
My  lad,  you  never  did  a  better  hand's  turn  than 
yesterday's  at  the  Bottle  of  Hay."  He  snatched 
up  his  axe,  spun  it  dangerously  in  the  air,  and 
caught  it  like  a  drum-major.  "Now,"  he  cried 
with  joyful  emphasis,  "we  know!  Come  on  up- 
stairs !" 

They  stood  in  the  panelled  room,  and  the  fire, 
generously  rebuilt,  was  blazing  high,  before  they 
spoke  again.  Each  man  had  remained  busy  with 
his  own  thoughts.  Leonard  put  on  his  jacket,  now 
dry  and  warm. 

"You  didn't  lock  that  door  after  us,  below," 
said  he. 

"A-purpose,"  George  replied.  "Our  friends 
will  call  again.  We  don't  want  to  leave  any  ob- 
stacles in  their  way,  do  we?  On  the  contrary. 
Welcome  little  strangers:  walk  into  our  parlor. 
They're  bound  to  come  soon." 

The  mere  prospect  was  enough  to  rouse  and 
rejuvenate  him.  He  laughed;  his  eyes  glittered 
in  the  fire-light;  the  swing  of  his  arms,  as  he  beat 
and  shook  off  the  rain-drops  from  his  coat,  seemed 
a  gay,  brisk  exercise  to  try  his  muscles,  make  them 
supple,  and  clear  his  body  for  action. 

"To   think   o'    that   Amalekite!"   he   crowed. 


FERN    SEED  131 

"Carrying  your  nosegay  round  the  house  with 
him,  your  forget-me-nots,  eh? — But  sit  down. 
YouVe  not  finished  your  snack." 

Over  the  interrupted  meal  on  the  loo-table,  and 
— when  this  was  In  part  cleared  away — over  their 
pipes  by  the  fireside,  the  two  men  sat  talking,  ex- 
changing plans,  ordering  a  mode  of  life  for  their 
next  few  days  together.  In  the  upshot.  It  proved 
a  simple  mode:  they  had  only  to  stay  there,  loaf, 
Grayland  said,  take  their  ease,  and  wait  for  what- 
ever should  arrive.  Outwardly,  all  was  to  go  on 
as  before.  People  would  know  that  Laurence  Cor- 
sant,  returned  home  but  now,  broken  In  health 
and  ordered  to  rest,  was  living  there  quietly.  His 
caretaker  George  would  be  seen  to  go  errands 
hither  and  yon  as  always,  but  especially  to  leave 
the  house  before  dark. 

"I  won't  go  far,"  said  George.  "Soon  as  our 
old  woman's  out  of  the  house,  back  I  slip.  We'll 
burn  candles  half  an  hour  In  a  bedroom,  then  blow 
'em  out :  like  Mr.  Laurence  gone  to  bed,  you  see. 
House  dark.  But  meantime  v/e'll  be  camping 
right  here  In  this  room.  A  good  booby-trap,  I 
call  it.     What  do  you  say?" 

Leonard  approved.  They  dismissed  the  sub- 
ject, forgot  all  cares,  and  spent  what  remained 
of  the  afternoon  in  random  lazy  talk.    Forty-odd 


132  FERN    SEED 

years  of  roving  had  made  George,  whatever  else 
he  was,  most  admirable  company  for  a  rainy  day. 
Leaning  backward  with  his  long  shanks  outspread 
toward  the  fire,  his  nose  pointed  at  the  ceiling, 
and  his  black  eyes  half-shut  as  they  dreamily 
watched  cloud  after  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke 
ascend,  he  recalled  an  amazing  diversity  of  this 
world's  creatures  and  told  many  curious  true  tales. 
His  language  was  often  rough,  but  his  judgment 
of  persons  unfailingly  gentle.  The  man  himself, 
his  own  doing,  appeared  in  the  narratives  only  by 
chance  now  and  then,  to  fix  the  year  of  an  action 
or  supply  an  attendant  circumstance.  Corsant 
heard  all  with  delight,  but  above  all  privately 
treasured  these  glimpses  Into  his  friend's  life. 
Such  a  thing  had  happened  when  George  was  "a 
ragged  boy  running  about  the  hedge-rows,  selling 
colored  whirligigs  and  paper  flowers";  such  an- 
other when  he  was  "in  trouble  for  stealing  a 
deer" ;  still  other  things,  when  he  had  been  a  sailor, 
or  doing  all  by  numbers  in  the  army,  or  observing 
mimosa  juice  and  steel  on  Lord  What's-name's 
Riviera  estate,  or  ringing  bells  to  earn  his  chow, 
or  catching  rough-haired  seals  from  Louie  Pier- 
pold's  canoe,  or  serving  his  Mr.  Laurence  In  a 
desert,  or  travelling  with  a  circus  through  India 


FERN    SEED  133 

and  learning  Pushtu  pretty  good.  The  hours 
went  all  too  quickly. 

"Well,  cheer-oh  for  the  present."  George  rose, 
yawned,  tweaked  his  cap  out  from  between  two 
red  morocco  tomes  on  a  book-shelf,  and  strolled 
away.  ''Speak  loud  to  the  old  girl,"  he  added,  in 
the  doorway.  "She's  deaf,  poor  soul.  And  got  no 
more  sense  than  Gammer  Vangs,  anyhow." 

It  was  In  fact  both  a  deaf  and  stupid  old  woman 
who,  when  Corsant  had  sat  dozing  for  a  long  time 
in  the  twilight,  came  and  summoned  him  to  dinner. 
He  ate  alone  in  a  dark,  chilly  room,  at  the  head 
of  a  long  table  on  which  two  candles  burned  for- 
lorn In  a  many-branched  candlestick,  like  a  massive 
silver  tree  bared  of  nearly  all  Its  leaves.  This 
wintry  light  showed  him  nothing  but  dusk,  outside 
the  glossy  expanse  of  polished  wood  where  his 
knives  and  forks  and  dishes  rested  on  their  re- 
flections, all  double,  as  though  floating  in  a  pool. 
The  china  was  old  and  good,  the  silver  worn  but 
heavy,  fashioned  like  tools  for  the  serious  work 
of  many  generations.  The  fish-slice,  he  thought, 
would  have  served  to  lay  bricks  with.  The  food, 
plainly  cooked,  had  substance  abounding,  and  a 
pint  of  excellent  claret,  well  warmed,  stood  at 
his  hand.  Yet  beyond  these  cheerful  solidities, 
all  remained  in  shadow,  hovering,  unaccountable. 


134  FERN    SEED 

Whenever  the  woman  approached,  he  saw  her  as 
a  hard-featured  dame,  tough,  wiry,  and  anxious, 
with  little  whiskered  warts  or  moles  dotting  her 
face,  and  the  look  of  deafness  in  her  watchful  eyes ; 
but  whenever  she  retired,  the  darkness  changed 
her  silence  and  her  care  Into  something  grim. 
She  seemed  to  haunt  rather  than  to  attend  him. 

He  was  glad  when  the  meal  ended,  and  he  could 
seek  the  fire  again  in  his  own  room  which  he  knew 
so  well.  Another  great  silver  tree  stood  on  a 
table  here.  It  was  full,  this  one,  of  candles.  He 
lighted  them  all,  and  after  pacing  the  floor  for 
pastime,  bethought  him  of  a  book.  The  volumes 
on  the  shelves,  however,  he  found  to  be  chiefly 
collected  sermons  and  Latin  discourses  on  divinity. 

Of  these  he  was  turning  the  pages  without  en- 
thusiasm, when  footsteps  crunched  on  gravel  un- 
der the  garden  windows. 

"That's  not  George." 

Bearing  the  candlestick,  he  went  to  the  front 
door,  opened  It,  and  peered  out. 

He  saw  only  a  bent  figure  hooded  In  waterproof 
trudging  off  through  the  rain  like  a  black  penitent. 
It  was  their  deaf  woman  going  home  for  the  night. 
The  lamps  of  some  wagon  or  cart,  awaiting  her, 
blinked  among  the  wet  leaves  by  the  gate. 

Leonard  shut  himself  in,  and  returned  to  his 


FERNSEED  135 

fire.  The  noise  of  the  rain  continued,  was  now 
and  again  swept  under  by  a  prolonged  rush  of 
wind,  began  afresh,  dropped  almost  to  silence 
through  an  interval  of  calm,  and  so  went  on, 
splashing  in  gusts  or  sunk  to  a  moody  drumming. 

"George  takes  his  time,''  thought  the  young 
man.  "Must  have  gone  farther  than  he  intended." 

That  seemed  nothing  to  complain  of.  As  he  sat 
alone  in  the  house,  Leonard  felt  thoroughly  con- 
tented, even  luxurious  by  that  bright  hearth,  as 
much  at  home  for  the  moment  as  though  he  be- 
longed there.  He  grew  warm  and  sleepy.  What- 
ever might  happen  later,  would  be  fun :  meantime 
to  bask  and  wait  and  smoke  was  pleasant  enough. 

Yet  while  he  waited,  a  slow  uneasiness  crept 
into  his  revery.  It  was  not  apprehension;  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  boredom.  He  could  neither  name 
it  nor  shrug  it  off.  There  might  have  been  a  new 
sound  in  the  room;  but  if  so,  he  had  not  truly 
heard  it;  there  might  have  been  a  vague  move- 
ment. Once  or  twice  Leonard  turned  to  look 
behind  him.  Nothing  was  there  but  his  silver 
Burning  Bush  of  candles,  and  above  them  the 
carven  Devil's  Nose  like  an  imp's  head  in  a  night- 
cap. He  had  not  expected  anything.  Neverthe- 
less he  acknowledged  the  nameless  fancy:  it  was 
as  if  someone  stood  behind  him  waiting  to  speak, 
and  when  he  turned,  was  gone. 


XII 


This  uneasy  quiet  endured  for  some  time.  A 
sudden  click  of  metal,  breaking  It,  made  Leonard 
start  but  also  relieved  him.  He  turned  to  wel- 
come something  definite. 

A  key  turned  in  a  lock.  The  front  door  opened 
quickly,  just  wide  enough  to  let  a  man  slip  through. 
The  man  who  did  so,  and  who  closed  it  in  the 
same  movement,  was  George.  He  had  come 
without  a  sound  of  footsteps. 

^'No  news?" 

He  spoke  hardly  above  a  whisper,  and  stood 
there  dripping  but  cheerful. 

"None,'*  said  Leonard. 

*'Will  you  draw  those  curtains,  please?"  Gray- 
land  pointed  with  his  thumb  toward  the  garden 
windows.  *'Like  the  blockhead  which  I  ought  not 
to  be  at  my  time  o'  life,  I  forgot  'em." 

When  his  friend  had  pulled  the  curtains  across 
and  overlapped  them  carefully,  he  advanced, 
peeled  off  his  wet  clothes,  hung  them  up,  and  in 

136 


FERN    SEED  137 

his  underwear  squatted  like  a  tailor,  back  to  the 
blaze. 

"Rotten  bit  of  work,  that,"  he  growled,  scolding 
himself.  *'They  could  have  looked  right  In  on 
you.  I  did.  Enough  like  Mr.  Laurence  you  were, 
sitting  here,  to  fool  me  for  a  moment. — So  noth- 
ing's happened?" 

Corsant  shook  his  head.  The  other  In  sign 
language  begged  a  cigarette,  lighted  It  from  a 
glowing  brand,  and  smoked  and  steamed  with 
great  relish. 

"To-night's  their  weather  for  It,  unless  they're 
fools,"  he  declared.  "So  wet  and  black,  with 
plenty  of  noises  to  cover  your  own:  If  'twas  my 
job,  I'd  tackle  her  before  midnight.  Outside  there, 
a  man  can't  even  tell  what's  near  him.  The  old 
girl  going  home  passed  within  touch  of  me;  nor 
you  nor  she  nor  the  pony-cart  boy  guessed  I  was 
there,  right  by  your  elbows."  George  nodded  at 
the  candlestick.  "You  stood  holding  that  in  an 
open  doorway.  Better  not  any  more,  my  son." 
He  gave  this  advice  with  a  hard  look,  said  no  more 
for  a  time,  and  fell  to  brooding.  "To-night's 
their  weather.  Mind,  If  they  do  come,  bags  I  the 
big  man.    He's  my  meat." 

Leonard  glanced  quickly  at  the  speaker. 

"You  sound  bloodthirsty,  George." 


138  FERN    SEED 

"I  only  want  to  come  to  my  hands  with  that 
jockey."  Grayland  threw  his  cigarette  Into  the 
flame  behind  him,  and  thoughtfully  examined  his 
fists.     "You  leave  It  to  me." 

Both  men  had  kept  their  voices  lowered;  George 
spoke  in  a  casual  undertone ;  but  the  words  had  a 
meaning  so  cold  and  deadly  that  his  companion 
watched  him  closer  than  before. 

"Why  now,  George,  we    ...    " 

"I  know  the  beast  better  than  what  you  do. 
Go  ask  the  natives  whose  women  and  babies  he 
contrived  to  have  slaughtered."  Grayland  rose. 
"Time  to  make  your  bed.  Whole  thing  may  go 
smooth,  anyway.  No  good  beating  the  air.  What 
I  mean  to  say  is,  If  it  did  come  to  a  fight,  Td  kill 
him  as  quick  as  any  other  snake,  without  a  smatch 
of  pity.    That's  all." 

He  stalked  away  into  the  darkness,  bare-armed, 
bare-legged,  his  flimsy  white  clothing  still  wet,  like 
a  ship-wrecked  Robinson  Crusoe  or  a  drowned 
ghost,  out  of  place  in  that  quiet  old  room.  Bend- 
ing his  head  under  the  pointed  arch,  he  vanished 
up  the  stairs,  to  return  soon  with  an  armful  of 
sticks  and  brown  canvas.  These  he  laid  on  the 
floor  below  a  tall  portrait,  and  rapidly  built  into 
a  cot,  which  he  shoved  against  the  wall.  Once 
more  vanishing  upstairs,  he  brought  down  a  sec- 


FERN    SEED 


139 


ond  armful,  this  time,  of  bedding.  With  a  few 
practised  movements  he  made  all  ready,  the  pil- 
low smooth,  sheets  folded  down,  pajamas  laid  out. 

"There  you  are,'*  said  George,  and  took  the 
Burning  Bush  of  candles  to  survey  his  work  by. 
"Hop  in.  I'll  carry  this  light  upstairs  and  put 
Mr.  Laurence's  astral  body  to  bed  there,  as  we 
agreed." 

He  was  turning  away,  when  Leonard  called  him 
back. 

"Who's  this  gentleman  watching  o'er  my  pil- 
low?" 

The  candles  flooded  with  streaming  brightness 
the  portrait,  its  tarnished  gilt  frame,  and  a  pair  of 
swords,  one  naked,  one  in  a  chafed  brown  leathern 
scabbard,  that  hung  on  either  side.  From  the 
canvas  a  black-eyed  young  man,  with  long  black 
curls  under  his  plumed  hat,  gave  them  an  odd, 
impatient  smile,  as  though  bidding  them  do  their 
staring  and  pass  on.  Dark-skinned,  high-colored, 
humorous,  restless,  the  cavalier  stood  whip  in  hand 
beside  the  head  of  a  bay  horse.  Leonard  could 
see  how  instantly  he  would  turn  to  mount. 

"That  sportsman?  Some  namesake  of  yours," 
replied  Grayland.  "Whoever  painted  him  had  to 
slap  it  in  lively,  eh?    *Come  on,'  says  he.    *Come 


I40  FERNSEED 

on,  Old  Dabstick,  get  It  over.'  He  was  great 
with  the  sword,  IVe  heard  tell." 

The  bit  of  hearsay  made  Leonard  prick  up  his 
ears. 

''No I    Was  he?" 

"A  famous  master  of  the  arm,  they  do  say,"  re- 
plied George.  "Killed  in  an  ambush  outside  Tan- 
gier. This  naked  one,  here,  was  his  pet  little 
pinking-iron.     I  oiled  her  up  last  week." 

Leonard  promptly  set  one  knee  on  his  cot  and 
leaning  toward  the  sword,  eyed  it  with  care  from 
hilt  to  point. 

''Good  plain  Toledo,"  he  murmured.  "About 
sixteen  hundred.    Pretty  balance,  I  should  think." 

"Hobby  of  yours?"  said  Grayland. 

"Used  to  be."  Leonard  drew  slowly  back  from 
the  weapon,  and  stood  gazing  up  once  more  at 
its  owner.  "Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "there  are  the 
lovelocks!  I  missed  *em  to-day  when  you  were 
handling  your  axe  by  the  window.  George,  this 
man  looks  like  you  I — And  somebody  else." 

His  candle-bearer  grunted,  and  swung  away  to 
the  stairs. 

"Humph !  YouVe  got  likenesses  on  the  brain. 
Let's  go  to  bed.    Talking  a  bit  too  loud,  we  were." 

Alone  with  the  firelight,  Corsant  undressed, 
groped  his  way  between  sheets,  and  lay  comfort- 


FERN    SEED  141 

ably  watching  the  shadows  jig  across  the  floor. 
Above  him  the  swords  and  their  master  faded  into 
the  common  darkness  of  the  wall.  He  woke  to 
see  Grayland  pass,  blanket-wrapped  like  a  tall 
Indian,  and  lie  down  on  the  hearth. 

"Oh,  look  here,"  protested  Leonard,  **I  feel 
like  a  pig  in  this  bed,  when  you " 

George  rolled  over,  presenting  the  shadow  of  a 
broad  back  and  narrow  waist. 

"Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber.  Tune, 
Greenville.    This  is  your  old  man^s  watch." 

They  fell  into  that  companionable  silence  which 
is  the  forerunner  of  sleep,  and  which  a  man  breaks 
only  to  enjoy  it  longer,  because  his  fellow  across 
the  way  appears  to  be  sharing  his  mood  if  not  his 
thought. 

"George,  do  you  ever  hear  any  noises  in  this 
room?    Queer  ones?" 

"Plenty  of  'em,"  replied  a  smothered  voice  from 
the  blanket.    "Any  old  house." 

"Yes,  but  I  mean " 

"You  mean,  like  somebody  waiting  to  be  spoke 
to,"  said  George,  with  a  yawn.  "Or  something 
waiting  to  be  found.     I  know." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"Nothing.  Fm  no  great  believer  in  ghosts." 
The   voice   burrowed   deeper   into    the   blanket. 


142  FERN    SEED 

"But  o'  course  there  are  old  ancient  things  that 
don't  die  and  can't  rest." 

The  friendly  silence  intervened  again.  Half 
awake,  Leonard  watched  the  fire  and  the  jogging 
shadows.  It  amused  him  to  see  what  litter  they 
two  men  had  already  strewn  about,  like  vagabonds 
camping  in  a  lady's  parlor :  their  clothes  and  boots, 
the  loo-table  still  half  cleared,  George's  umbrella 
against  the  wall,  as  fat,  shapeless,  and  traditional 
as  any  apple-woman's  in  the  Chatterbox  of  child- 
hood. 

"George." 

"Oh,  what  now?" 

"Any  womankind  in  this  family?" 

"Only  one,  thank  God,"  said  the  smothered 
voice.     "One  sister." 

"What's  she  like?" 

Grayland's  shadow  stirred  by  the  fire,  rolled, 
and  lay  on  its  back.  His  answer,  withheld  for 
a  moment,  sounded  both  unwilling  and  vindictive. 

"Old  maid,  standard  type,"  he  grumbled.  "Flat 
front.  Long  neck,  coiled  round  with  pearls,  like 
seized  riggin'.  Smokes  and  plays  cards  all  night, 
and  snaps  your  head  off."  He  paused,  then  as  if 
trying  to  be  just,  added:  "  'But  though  she  wears 
another's  hair,  she  is  an  interestin'  person.'  " 


FERNSEED  143 

"Well  for  us  that  she's  not  here  now,"  said 
Leonard. 

George  chuckled.  ^ 

*'I  believe  you,  my  boy.  Time  we  quit  talking. 
Good  night.'* 

Rain  was  the  last  thing  heard.  Rain,  steady 
though  diminished,  woke  Leonard  next  morning 
at  daylight  with  muffled  drums  about  the  house. 
Having  breakfasted  and  set  their  room  in  order, 
the  two  men  parted  company:  George  to  bundle 
the  cot  upstairs  and  take  his  turn  of  sleep,  Leonard 
to  stand  watch  through  the  forenoon.  A  quiet 
night  had  left  them  both  disgruntled,  cheating 
their  hopes ;  and  now  a  long  dark  day  persevered 
in  gloom,  hour  after  crawling  hour,  without  inci- 
dent or  change,  without  a  stir  but  for  the  hopping 
of  rain  in  puddles  along  the  driveway  and  the 
wriggling  of  bright  drops  down  windowpanes. 
George  came  from  his  nap  surly,  and  when  twi- 
light drew  near  at  last,  went  outdoors  growling. 

"  'Tis  neither  fit  for  man  nor  beast,"  he  quoted. 
"What's  more,  I  don't  believe  they're  coming, 
either  kind." 

He  left  behind  the  contagion  of  his  doubt. 
Alone  once  more,  Corsant  paced  the  room  up  and 
down  a  mile  or  two,  wished  the  time  away,  ruined 
his  taste  for  tobacco,  fidgetted,  poked  the  fire,  and 


144  FERN    SEED 

grew  convinced  that  he  and  George  were  a  couple 
of  idiots.  Long  before  dinner  time  he  lighted 
the  candles  in  their  silver  bush.  After  sitting 
with  them  disconsolate,  he  walked  the  floor  again, 
stared  portraits  out  of  countenance,  hauled  books 
down  and  put  them  up  unread.  Caleb  Trench- 
field*s  Christian  Chymestree,  Hooker's  Sermons, 
Calamy's,  Frewen's,  Bishop  BulPs,  and  Stllllng- 
fleet's ;  Burnet's  History,  Clarendon's :  The  Saint's 
Rest,  The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  Lockyear's 
England  Watched,  Johnson's  Dictionary;  all  these 
he  thumbed  and  frowned  into,  till  for  the  sake  of 
gambling  he  shut  his  eyes  and  drew  a  volume. 

The  lot  fell  on  worthy  Bishop  Bull. 

**Almost  a  modern.  1827.  Gorryl  Some 
rocks  for  the  mind  to  break  on." 

Sinking  defeated  in  his  arm-chair,  Leonard  be- 
gan The  State  of  Man  Before  the  Fall.  It  prom- 
ised, to  his  ignorance,  a  few  gleams  of  bliss  from 
the  earthly  paradise.  But  no  sunshine  leaked  out 
here.  Lost  in  a  black  sand-storm  where  Pelagians 
and  Socinians  whirled  round  the  protoplast  like 
dead  leaves,  he  plodded  on,  sometimes  buffeted  by 
quatenus  or  quomodo,  sometimes  cheered  by  sight 
of  Crelllus  or  Smalcius  nibbling  at  an  argument 
among  other  doleful  night-creatures  of  the  desert. 
His  courage  drooped. 


FERNSEED  145 

"...  how  absurd  soever  that  interpreta- 
tion may  at  first  appearance  seem  to  be."  Thus 
Bishop  Bull  strode  manfully  ahead.  *'For  upon  a 
diligent  search  you  will  find,  that  aliquid  latet, 
quod  non  patet,  'there  is  a  mystery  in  the  bot- 
tom.' " 

Here  the  reader  stopped;  indeed,  he  was  never 
to  finish  the  book;  for  behind  him,  as  it  had  come 
last  night,  there  came  that  vague  unrest,  a  flutter 
and  a  sigh.  It  was  nothing.  Yet  from  the  corner 
at  his  back,  empty  air  called  to  him  without  words 
and  a  motion  ceased.  That  which  was  not  alive, 
but  which  as  Grayland  had  said  could  neither  die 
nor  rest,  was  waiting.  The  expectancy  made  no 
appeal  to  his  five  senses,  evaded  them,  glided 
through  or  under  and  touched  at  their  root  the 
same  forgotten  impulses  he  had  known  yesterday. 

Leonard  stood  up,  and  turned. 

There  was  nobody,  of  course;  nothing  but  can- 
dle-shine on  dark  brown  oak,  and  shadows,  and 
in  the  little  pointed  carving  two  holes  like  a  pair, 
of  blind  sockets.  It  waited,  viewless,  before  his 
face.  He  heard  again  the  flutter  and  the  passing 
breath.  For  a  minute  afterward  he  remained 
there,  intent,  alone  with  what  he  did  not  under- 
stand. He  was  quite  cool.  The  thing  had  in  it 
no  quality  of  alarm,  only  a  baffling  insistence  that, 


146  FERNSEED 

if  comparable  at  all,  was  like  the  demand  and  re- 
fusal of  a  known  face  to  appear  before  the  mind's 
eye. 

Leonard  gave  up  the  riddle,  crossed  to  the 
shelves  again,  and  slid  the  good  Bishop  home  for 
perhaps  another  century  of  calm,  where  the 
Pelagians  cease  from  troubling.  As  he  did  so, 
the  handle  of  the  front  door  turned. 

"Hello,  George,"  he  said  quietly,  over  his 
shoulder.  "Glad  to  see  you.  Been  entertaining 
more  spooks." 

The  door  closed,  the  bolt  was  shot. 

"Home  early,  aren't  you?" 

George  did  not  answer.  There  was  a  flapping 
sound  of  wet  raincoats. 

Leonard  turned  from  the  books.  Two  men 
stood  near  the  door,  watching  him. 


XIII 

At  first  glance  he  took  them  for  strangers.  The 
candle-light  falling  short  of  where  they  stood,  left 
their  features  in  doubt:  their  quiet  appearance 
had  surprised  him  while  his  thoughts  ran  else- 
where; and  as  for  a  time  they  neither  spoke  nor 
moved,  nothing  told  him  who  they  were.  Then, 
by  the  difference  In  height  and  bearing,  he  knew. 
This  was  the  pair  who  had  talked  bad  French 
in  the  Bottle  of  Hay. 

"Here  we  are,"  thought  Leonard.  "Trouble 
ahead." 

If  they  meant  danger,  he  welcomed  it  after  so 
much  idleness.  The  two  seemed  to  be  waiting 
keenly  for  his  next  movement.  He  therefore  re- 
mained still,  outwardly  at  ease.  Their  silence  and 
wooden  Immobility  conveyed  a  threat,  but  also 
tickled  his  sense  of  melodrama:  the  taller  man, 
cloaked  in  dark  waterproof,  had  struck  a  bit  of 
attitude  which  recalled  the  fatal  warbler  Edgardo 
at  Lucia  di  Lammermoor's  wedding.     Next  mo- 

147 


148  FERNSEED 

ment,  acting  together  with  military  precision,  they 
peeled  off  their  raincoats,  dropped  them  clashing 
on  the  floor,  and  flung  down  their  hats.  It  was 
done  quickly,  in  prefect  time,  and  showed  re- 
hearsal if  not  drill.  They  had  stripped  at  once 
for  business.  Leonard  perceived  that  much,  and 
held  himself  ready;  but  meanwhile  he  could  think 
only  of  a  pair  of  comedians  opening  some  trick 
on  the  stage.  He  smiled,  and  when  the  taller  man 
came  abruptly  forward,  received  him  smiling. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  knock,  gentlemen,"  said  he. 
"There  is  a  very  fine  old  knocker  on  my  door." 

From  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Leonard  took  note 
that  his  other  enemy,  the  swart  little  man,  stood 
by  the  door  as  if  posted  there  on  guard.  He  liked 
this  arrangement:  it  was  a  mistake. 

"Bar  shooting,"  he  thought,  "I  can  handle  'em 
one  after  one." 

The  fellow  near  by,  George's  professional 
traitor  and  Amalekite,  confronted  him  with  a 
smirk  of  triumph.  He  was  neatly  but  stiffly 
dressed,  as  when  they  had  met  in  Gino's  cafe. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Corsant,"  he  replied  in  his 
throaty  bass,  and  bowed  with  mock  politeness. 
"On  soch  a  dark  night,  we  could  not  find  your 
knocker.  You  must  excuse.  Yes,  soch  a  dark, 
lonesome  night!" 


FERN    SEED  149 

Meeting  the  look  in  his  pale  eyes,  Leonard  un- 
derstood. Here  was  a  bad  cggy  a  dirty  fighter, 
cold-blooded,  yet  pompous  as  a  Prussian,  touchy 
in  the  headpiece,  swollen,  and  quick  to  explode; 
moreover,  a  chap  who  smirked  because  two  to  one 
against  a  sick  man  would  be  easy.  This  last  con- 
sideration hardened  our  friend's  heart.  He  re- 
treated a  few  steps,  limping  badly. 

"Now  you  are  here,"  said  he,  "won't  you  sit 
down?" 

"Thank  you,  no."  The  pale-eyed  fellow  over- 
did his  irony.  "Our  business  Is  quite  short;  it  can 
be  done  standing." 

Leonard  sighed,  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
as  though  faint.  He  had  hoped  to  draw  these 
two  yet  farther  apart;  but  though  one  remained 
still  on  guard  by  his  door,  the  other,  instead  of 
following,  began  to  pace  up  and  down  across  the 
room,  near  the  portrait  of  the  swordsman. 

"It  is  a  very  dark  night,"  he  repeated,  with 
relish. 

"So  dark  as  all  that?"  drawled  his  victim. 
"Please  don't  say  it  again.  Really,  you  freeze 
the  marrow  in  me  bones." 

Any  kind  of  talk  would  serve  to  waste  time; 
the  more  time  wasted,  the  better  chance  of 
George's  return.     But  whether  George  came  or 


I50  FERNSEED 

not,  somebody  about  this  room  was  to  have  a 
surprise,  whenever  poor  Mr.  Laurence  Corsant, 
leaning  here  so  feeble  and  nursing  his  bad  leg  so 
plaintively,  should  get  his  health  back  all  of  a 
sudden  and  jump  In. 

"Don't  you  try  laughing  at  me,  Corsant.  I  ad- 
vise you  not."  The  walker  by  the  portrait  halted. 
His  face  grew  red.  All  the  bully  in  him  blustered. 
"Your  ape's  pranks  at  the  inn,  they  were  very 
fonny,  hey,  but  they  did  not  buy  you  anything." 

Leonard  made  round  eyes  of  alarm. 

"Oh,  no,  of  course,  not  a  red,"  he  answered, 
meekly.    "Pure  amateur  sport." 

"Ah,  sport,  sport  I  That  kind  of  stoff  makes 
me  sick!"  The  other  glared  at  him.  "I  advise 
you  not  to  be  fonny.  Now  come,  we  have  talked 
enough  nonzense.  You  are  trying  to  waste  our 
time;  but  it's  no  use,  for  that  man  of  yours,  the 
damn  gipsy,  is  down  in  the  village  some  miles 
away.  There  is  only  one  deaf  old  woman  here. 
You  had  better  give  us  quick  what  we  are  after." 

Leonard  feigned  surprise  and  Ignorance.  He 
was  in  fact  beating  his  brains :  how  could  he  en- 
tice this  chap  to  draw  nearer,  to  come  across  the 
room  within  fair  striking  distance?  By  showing 
him  any  old  bit  of  paper   .    .   l. 


FERN    SEED  151 

"Yes?  You  want  something?"  he  asked. 
"What  can  it  be?" 

His  adversary  blustered  again. 

"Oh,  come  I  You  know  well  enough,  Corsant. 
Two  little  sheets  of  writing.  We  have  called  them 
Gamma  and  Delta  in  our  game.  One  you  stole 
from  me  in  that  pigsty  place,  day  before  yester- 
day. The  other  you  stole  from  old  Jacob  the 
Beardless,  at  the  Wolfs  Well,  out  there."  He 
swept  his  arm  angrily  toward  some  unknown 
region  of  the  East.  "We  want  them  both.  You 
can  keep  all  the  others." 

Leonard  began  groping  lazily  in  his  pockets. 

"May  I?    Thank  you." 

Both  men  watched  him  more  sharply  than  ever. 
He  could  read  in  their  eyes  the  certainty  that  if 
he  had  a  weapon,  he  would  never  draw  it  but  half 
way.  Being  unarmed,  he  took  his  time,  enjoyed 
their  suspense,  and  very  languidly  searched  pocket 
after  pocket.  There  was  nothing  to  serve  his 
trick,  not  so  much  as  an  old  letter,  a  card,  a  scrap. 
Among  crumbs  of  tobacco,  his  fingers  encountered 
a  wilted  leaf, — the  fern-tip  which  that  girl  in  the 
blue-bell  grove  had  given  him  for  luck.  He 
brought  it  out  and  kept  it  in  his  left  hand,  as 
though  the  crumpled  fragment  had  really  been 
a  talisman.     At  the  moment  he  needed  all  such 


152  FERN    SEED 

friendly  reminders.  George's  umbrella,  the  grand- 
motherly gamp,  stood  by  him  against  the  wall. 
He  remembered  how  Gino  had  leaned  in  the  same 
dejected  fashion.  From  these  thoughts  he  looked 
up  calmly. 

"It's  no  go,**  said  he.  "Sorry,  gentlemen,  but 
I*ve  not  the  faintest  idea  where  your  documents 
are  gone  to.    I  haven't  them.*' 

The  man  by  the  portrait  stamped  his  foot,  and 
suddenly  raged. 

"Come I  No  more!"  he  cried,  with  a  stream 
of  foul  language.     "Where  are  they?" 

Leonard  waited  until  he  had  done  roaring. 

"I  don't  know.  Wouldn't  tell  you  if  I  did,  but 
I  don't." 

This  was  perfectly  true.  He  laughed.  The 
words,  or  the  laugh,  or  both  together,  had  an 
amazing  effect.  Truth  prevailed:  there  came  a 
dead  lull  of  astonishment  and  belief. 

"What's  this?"  The  fellow's  harsh  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and 
stared,  crouching  forward.  "What's  this? 
Watch  the  door,  Kamsa!  Look  sharp.  This 
man — it*s  not  Corsant  at  all!" 

Silence  followed.  The  pair  looked  from  him 
to  each  other  and  back  again  quickly,  moved,  stood 
fast,  then  hearkened  with  sidelong  glances.  Doubt 


FERN    SEED  153 

had  them  wavering,  suspicions  of  a  trap,  an  am- 
buscade in  some  corner  of  the  room.  It  was 
Kamsa  the  underling  who  first  took  heart  again. 

"Oh,  he's  Corsant  oil  raight,"  affirmed  the 
swarthy  Locust.  *'No  fear.  See  'is  lalg.  We 
had  that  given  'im  at " 

His  master  turned  on  him  in  fury.  "Shut  up, 
you  chee-chee.  Keep  your  ears  open.  There's 
something  wrong  here." 

Leonard  agreed  with  them  both. 

"Yes,  you're  seeing  things.  There  are  spooks 
In  the  room,"  he  said,  blandly,  and  went  on  wast- 
ing time.  "I  can  tell  you  better  In  Latin.  *Aliqiiid 
latet,  quod  non  patet/  Spooks  would  naturally 
prefer  a  dead  language,  wouldn't  they?  It's  good 
Bull  Latin.  'There  is  a  mystery  at  the  bottom.' 
Or  you  might  say 

'Things  are  seldom  what  they  seem. 
Skim-milk  masquerades  as  cream.' 

In  short,  I  have  the  receipt  of  fern  seed." 

The  leader  of  his  enemies  remained  bending 

forward,  glaring  at  him  with  no  less  perplexity 

than  hatred. 

"I  believe  you  are.     Same  silly  way  of  talking. 

Brainless  puppy.     Him  or  his  brother.     But  the 

front  of  your  head's  different." 


154  FERN    SEED 

Leonard  smiled  in  apology. 

"You're  right.  No  brains.  *The  shallow  part 
Is  always  the  forehead,  at  least  In  Oxford,  sir.'  " 
He  suddenly  cast  off  his  pretended  weakness,  drew 
clear  of  the  wall,  stood  up,  and  spoke  out.  These 
brutes  would  never  come  close  enough,  so  let  them 
begin.  "Put  your  mind  at  rest.  I'm  Corsant. 
We've  fooled  long  enough.  You,  I  believe,  are 
a  secret  agent,  and  a  bad  one  who  can't  pull 
off  the  simplest  job.  What  any  China  Coast 
comprador  would  call  a  Number  Nine  man,  on 
sight.  That's  you:  a  professional  turn-coat,  sell- 
ing out  both  ends,  and  even  so  a  failure.  You 
walk  in  here  threatening  me  about  some  of  your 
trumpery  blackmail  papers  not  worth  the  smutty 
thumb-prints  on  'em,  and  then  stand  round  talking 
phrenology.  Pretty  feeble.  Now  get  out,  the 
pair  of  you.  I  don't  know  where  your  HIttlte 
garbage  Is,  and  don't  care.  It's  in  safe  keeping, 
for  good.  You  have  one  minute  to  pick  that  wet 
mess  off  my  floor,  and  clear  yourself  and  your 
chee-chee  sweeper  out  of  my  house.  That's  all. 
You  needn't  stop  to  beg  my  pardon.  Start,  and 
start  now." 

The  man  by  the  picture,  who  also  had  drawn 
himself  upright,  took  this  abuse  at  first  like 
a  wooden  image.    Then  his  body  began  to  writhe, 


FERNSEED  155 

his  features  to  swell,  and  the  breath  to  sputter  and 
quaver  between  his  teeth. 

"Ah!  You  think  we  are  blofEng!"  He  raised 
both  fists  aloft,  brandished  them,  clapped  them 
to  his  head  like  a  madman,  choked,  and  suddenly 
reeling,  struck  with  his  elbow  the  naked  sword  so 
that  it  clattered  on  the  wall.  '*I  show  you  who  is 
failure!" 

He  wrenched  the  sword  down,  and  came  leaping 
across  the  room.  It  is  probable  that  even  in  his 
frenzy  he  may  have  been  taken  aback  when  Leon- 
ard met  him  half  way,  low-set  and  springy,  on 
guard  with  George's  bag  of  an  umbrella. 

As  for  Leonard,  he  saw  only  the  furious  pale 
eyes:  that  was  his  affair:  but  he  heard  Grayland 
charging  from  somewhere  with  a  shout,  and  re- 
turned it: 

"No,  no !  Get  that  little  greaser  by  the  door, 
George !" 

Meanwhile  there  had  been  three  or  four  passes 
of  the  sword.     Leonard  laughed. 

"Crude  work,  old  man. — Poor  schooling. — 
Stiff. — Come  again." 

It  came  again,  the  good  Toledo  in  bad  hands. 
Next  moment  it  went  whirling  through  the  air, 
and  fell  with  a  clang.      As  it  did  so,   Corsant 


156  FERN    SEED 

dropped  his  umbrella,  and  struck  out  right-handed 
for  the  jaw. 

"There's  your  Amaleklte,'*  he  called. 

But  the  man  had  hardly  come  down  before 
George  was  sitting  on  him,  grinning  like  a  black 
wild-cat. 

''Hand  me  that  sword,"  said  George.  He  was 
barefoot. 

The  front  door  stood  half  open.  From  behind 
it,  among  the  raincoats,  a  pair  of  short  legs  kicked 
feebly. 

"That's  nothing.  Only  sent  the  black-and-tan 
to  bye-low." 

Leonard  could  not  yet  understand  the  scene. 

"The  door  was  bolted,"  he  said.  "How'd 
you  get  in?" 

George,  sitting  as  on  a  fallen  horse,  grew  im- 
patient. 

"Crawled  underneath  their  mimosa,  o'  course, 
and  upstairs.  'Twas  Kamsa  the  Locust  drew  the 
bolt.  I  caught  him  flitting. — Here!"  Grayland 
shook  out  one  hand,  fretfully.  "This  fellow's 
coming  to.    Give  me  the  sword." 

Leonard  recovered  that  weapon,  but  kept  it. 

"No  you  don't."  He  shook  his  head.  "None 
of  that." 

"But  youVe  never  known  this  beast,"   cried 


FERN    SEED  157 

George,  angrily.  "I  do.  He's  one  trail  of  slime 
from  here  to  hell-fire.    Hand  over." 

"No,  sir.  He's  the  captive  of  my  trusty  gamp," 
said  Leonard.  "I  don't  want  any  of  his  low  gore 
in  my  nice  clean  house." 

Another  voice  behind  them  joined  the  argu- 
ment. 

"My  own  feelings  to  a  T,"  it  said,  crisp  and 
cheerful.     "You're  outvoted,  George." 

They  turned.  On  the  threshold,  removing  a 
jaunty  brown  oilskin,  stood  young  Mr.  Laurence. 

"Come  right  in  with  your  men,  will  you?"  He 
looked  back  toward  the  rain,  where  two  or  three 
dark  figures  waited.  "House-breaking,  I  take  it; 
or  assault  with  a  deadly  weapon?  Good  evening, 
namesake.    How  are  you?" 


XIV 

"You  were  like  the  last  scene  In  Hamlet,"  said 
Mr.  Laurence  Corsant,  when  he  and  Leonard 
were  dining  an  hour  afterward.  "Prostrate  forms 
all  over  the  stage.  Rather  extraordinary  to  walk 
in  upon,  by  one's  own  hearth-stone,  wasn't  It?"  He 
laughed.  "Yet  In  a  way  I  expected  something  un- 
common. Whenever  George  grows  mysterious, 
you  may  be  sure  he's  cooking  a  little  surprise  for 
you." 

They  sat  at  a  corner  of  the  great  table,  where 
two  silver  trees  filled  with  candles  now  burned 
brightly  and  made  the  surroundings  less  forlorn; 
but  even  so  their  excess  of  elbow-room,  the  board 
reaching  empty  away  to  its  foot,  gave  them  a  de- 
serted air  as  if  they  remained  lingering  after  com- 
pany had  gone.  While  his  kinsman  spoke,  this 
fancy  ran  strong  in  Leonard's  mind.  It  was  more 
than  fancy.  It  was  truth ;  for  at  this  lighted  table 
many  had  sat  who  were  now  vanished,  and  they 
two  alone  survived. 

158 


FERN    SEED  159 

"I  knew  George  would  be  stirring  up  some 
jagra**  continued  Laurence.  "His  devilish  wiles 
for  getting  me  out  of  this  house  were  rather  lame. 
So  I  didn't  go  far  or  stay  long.  This  afternoon 
from  Mrs.  Merle's  window  (by  the  way,  youVe 
quite  cut  me  out  with  her) ,  I  saw  those  two  ras- 
cals go  by.  Hence  all  the  constabulary  with  me 
this  evening.  I  must  admit  you  and  George  don't 
require  much  help." 

He  smiled,  and  turned  their  conversation  to 
the  East,  both  near  and  far.  Had  a  stranger  been 
at  table,  seeing  them  together,  he  would  have 
found  more  traits  of  difference  than  of  likeness  in 
the  two  men.  Both  were  fair-haired,  rather  hook- 
nosed, and  in  frame  slender  though  well  knit;  but 
there  resemblance  ended  between  Leonard  the  sun- 
burnt hearty  eater,  quick  of  tongue,  and  Laurence 
with  his  pale  thin  face,  his  leisurely  dry  speech, 
his  resignation  to  a  narrow  diet,  and  about  his 
eyes  the  look  of  one  who  had  lately  come  through 
suffering,  unbeaten,  still  merry. 

"Yes.  That  girl  in  Alexandria,"  declared  the 
ascetic,  "no  wonder  she  thought  she  knew  you.  I 
often  chucked  her  under  the  chin.  Metaphorically, 
of  course.  Pert  little  baggage.  Half  Greek,  half 
French.    From  one  of  the  islands." 


i6o  FERN    SEED 

"Mighty  pretty,  anyhow,"  urged  Leonard. 
"Wasn't  she?" 

His  host  could  not  remember  that  part. 

"I  dare  say.  Her  father  worked  for  us  a  long 
while  out  there.  Useful  man,  most  useful,  after 
you  learned  to  know  him  and  could  sift  the  lies 
out.  A  chin-chucking  policy  helped  one  learn,  you 
know."  Laurence's  eyes  twinkled  at  some  mem- 
ory. "But  to  come  back.  Our  friend  whom  the 
police  led  babbling  away  just  now:  he  gave  you 
a  friendly  warning  In  GIno's  cafe,  did  he?  That's 
interesting.  Can't  tell  you  how  interesting.  He 
would  have  wanted  me  to  clear  out  then.  For 
reasons. — The  dickens  of  it  is,  I  never  can  tell 
you  just  what,  or  how  very,  very  much  you've 
done  for  me,  old  chap." 

He  said  this  lightly,  his  hearer  took  it  so;  but 
each  man  for  an  instant  looked  the  other  in  the 
eyes,  and  appeared  content  with  what  he  saw 
there. 

"Right!  Understood,"  said  Laurence.  "Some 
things  I  can  tell  you,  and  shall." 

A  quiet  step  sounded  In  the  hall.  Grayland, 
wet  and  sombre,  came  to  report. 

"How  now,  G.  G.  ?"  said  his  young  chief. 
"What?     Your  prisoners  didn't  escape?" 

George  stood  and  glowered  at  the  table. 


FERN    SEED  i6i 

"No  fear,''  he  answered,  doggedly.  "They're 
In  tight  enough.  But  Lord,  what's  a  couple  of 
years  for  house-breaking?" 

Mr.  Laurence  Corsant  gave  a  little  time  and 
study  to  his  retainer. 

"My  dear  George,"  said  he,  "do  you  sulk  be- 
cause you're  not  in  for  manslaughter  yourself?  If 
so,  let  not  your  heart  be  troubled.  That  pair  will 
have  reason  to  wish  they  had  never  seen  us.  Their 
woes  are  only  beginning  to-night." 

The  mourner  glanced  up  quickly. 

"If  It's  a  fair  question,  sir:  you  mean  they'll 
be  taken  higher?" 

"Much  higher."  Laurence  nodded.  "So  high 
as  to  make  Gilderoy's  kite  seem  a  titlark,  my 
boy,  and  Ossa  like  a  wart."  He  sighed.  "Have 
you  that  paper  you  spoke  of,  the  one  my  name- 
sake— er — obtained  at  the  Bottle  of  Hay?  Not 
the  love  letter." 

Without  a  word,  Grayland  left  the  room  and 
presently  returned.  He  laid  before  them  the  sheet 
of  paper  covered  with  black  curves  and  hooks  like 
shorthand,  signed  in  vermilion  with  a  man's  thumb. 
Laurence  read  It  through  rapidly,  then  dragged  a 
candlestick  toward  him,  and  read  again  with  care. 
His  eyes  appeared  to  darken,  as  if  the  old  pain 


i62  FERNSEED 

which  they  had  conquered  once  were  giving  him 
another  twinge. 

"All  the  words  and  music  of  the  play."  He 
spoke  bitterly,  and  shook  his  head.  "With  the 
charming  facts  we  already  had,  It  completes  a 
very  nasty  mess.  Finish."  He  lighted  a  cigarette 
among  the  candles,  and  smoked  pensively. 
"Thanks  to  your  agile  doings  at  the  Bottle  of 
Hay,  all  this  rottenness  has  fallen  into  the  right 
hands.  In  the  wrong,  your  paper  here  and  one  I 
held,  would  have  been  used  to  bring  on, — well, 
massacre,  followed  by  another  hole-and-corner 
war  that  might  spread.  Certainly  a  few  hundred 
men,  women,  and  children,  perhaps  a  few  thou- 
sand, who  never  heard  of  you  or  me,  will  go  on 
leading  so-called  innocent  lives  out  there." 

The  morose  cloud  swept  from  George's  face. 
Glowing  with  admiration,  he  turned  to  Leonard. 

"See  him!  Hear  him  I"  he  cried.  "Don't  let 
him  deceive  you.  It's  a  pukkah  victory,  that's 
what,  after  hard  work.  And  he  makes  as  if  he'd 
lost  his  last  friend." 

Leonard  rose,  and  took  one  of  the  candlesticks. 

"Your  raw  material  of  victory,  dear  old  chap," 
said  he,  limping  off  toward  the  door,  "is  never  so 
pretty  as  the  manufactured  article.  The  dyer's 
hand. — Let's  go  in  by  the  fire." 


FERNSEED  163 

Later,  upstairs  at  bed-time,  the  two  Corsants 
were  leaning  on  the  sill  of  an  open  window,  admir- 
ing the  night.  In  dark  trees  below  them  pattered 
a  few  last  drops,  but  the  air  smelled  fresh,  and 
over  the  black  cloud-like  hills  and  whispering 
river  hung  a  multitude  of  stars.  Laurence,  in 
pajamas,  had  come  to  see  if  the  guest-chamber 
were  comfortable,  and  then  lingered  to  talk  a 
while. 

"Glad  you  and  G.  G.  hit  It  off  so  well  through- 
out," said  he.  "A  great  old  George.  Curious 
thing,  you  know.  George  and  I  have  been  in 
tight  corners  together;  and  here's  a  game  leg  to 
remind  me  how  he  saved  the  rest  of  my  carcass; 
and  yet — that  seems  the  least  part  of  it,  somehow. 
We  met  by  chance  at  Aden,  of  all  places.  WeVe 
always  been  more  like  brothers,  if  you  understand 
me."  The  young  man  became  silent,  and  looked 
out  as  though  reading  the  stars.  "Peaceful  here, 
Isn't  it? — As  for  George,  there's  something  I  want 
to  show  you.  It  can  wait  till  morning.  By  the 
way,  he  declares  that  we  must  keep  your  umbrella 
In  the  family  archives;  that  our  forerunner  in 
the  picture,  the  johnny  with  the  sword,  below- 
stalrs,  would  have  been  proud  of  you.  Wonderful 
work,  George  says:  never  saw  anything  half  so 
good." 


i64  FERNSEED 

The  speaker  turned,  and  waiting,  seemed  to  ex- 
pect a  reply. 

"I  did  use  to  fence  a  bit,"  said  Leonard,  with 
embarrassment.  "Dad  always  believed  in  getting 
the  best  master  whoM  take  you,  for  learning  any- 
thing.    Forgotten  most  of  it  now." 

Laurence  nodded,  smiling  like  one  who  ap- 
proved the  words  but  saw  behind  them.  All  he 
said  was: 

"Wise  man,  your  governor.  Mine,  too,  had 
his — Well,  it's  late."  He  drew  In  his  head,  and 
rose  from  the  window-sill.     "Good  night." 

After  his  host  had  gone,  Leonard  remained 
watching  the  stars.  There  were  indeed  certain 
championships,  meetings  between  masters  of 
broadsword  and  foil,  which  his  answer  had  ig- 
nored; the  late  combat,  rapier  and  gamp,  had  been 
no  boy's  play;  but  what  he  concealed  most  care- 
fully, and  what  his  thoughts  now  dwelt  on,  was 
even  a  less  important  fact.  All  through  that  en- 
gagement he  had  kept,  in  his  left  hand,  a  dog's- 
eared  corner  of  fern  leaf. 

"By  gum,  you  may  say  it  was  lucky."  He  nursed 
with  one  finger  a  raw  line  that  smarted  under  his 
ear.  "The  beggar's  blade  missed  my  throat  by 
an  inch." 

The  stars  were  many  and  bright,  all  things  un- 


FERN    SEED  165 

der  them  a  blackness  varieci  only  with  hints  of 
form.  Leonard  could  hear  the  river  like  a  faint 
breeze  passing  down  the  valley.  Somewhere  be- 
low, the  night  hid  a  grove  of  beeches,  round  which 
the  Rose  had  gone,  and  toward  which  he  con- 
tinued looking.  Outwardly  he  saw  nothing;  in- 
wardly he  saw  red  oar-blades  flash  between  sun 
and  water,  and  a  girl  whose  dark  eyes  befriended 
him  as  she  rowed  away. 

"A  pity."  He  turned  from  the  window  to  bed. 
"A  pity  she  won't  ever  know  her  charm  worked.'* 

Bright  sunlight,  next  morning,  shone  upon  a 
world  refreshed  and  wonderfully  green,  clear 
overhead,  with  vernal  haze  melting  In  the  dis- 
tance roundabout.  It  was  lazy  weather;  and  as 
two  lazy  young  men  with  golf  clubs  passed  through 
the  garden,  they  halted  to  enjoy  it  all, — from  the 
sleepy  noise  of  rooks  half  a  mile  away,  to  a  pleas- 
ant click  of  shears  close  by,  and  a  smell  of  box 
that  mingled  with  their  own  first  tobacco  after 
breakfast. 

"Enough  to  make  one  poetical.  *The  earliest 
pipe  of  half-awakened  bards,'  eh?"  Laurence 
mused,  and  snuffed  the  air.  "A  general  Pukwana 
of  the  peace-pipe." 

The  clipping  ceased ;  from  behind  an  overgrown 
tangle  rose  George ;  his  wet  shears  were  spattered 


i66  FERN    SEED 

with  crumbs  of  green,  which  he  wiped  off  as  he 
said  good  morning. 

"The  man*s  got  his  mare  again."  He  viewed 
these  idlers  with  radiant  satisfaction.  "Each  back 
in  his  own  coat,  and  all's  well.  Good  Lord,  it's 
a  treat  to  see  a  couple  of  you  round !" 

"Come  along  with  us,  George." 

The  bedraggled  gardener  shook  his  head. 

"Not  I.  Nobody's  trimmed  this  mess  proper 
for  twenty  years."  He  bent  down,  out  of  sight. 
"  'Tis  a  ruin." 

"By  the  way,  coats :  you  remind  me."  Laurence 
turned  to  his  companion.  "IVe  an  apology  for 
some  bad  temper,  when  we  met  under  the  bridge. 
Too  long  a  story  now.  I'll  tell  it  to  you  some 
day." 

George  suddenly  rose  again  from  the  leaves. 
His  black  eyes  were  sparkling  oddly. 

"Could  I  be  there  to  hear  it?"  he  begged.  "Fve 
a  reason  for  asking." 

"Of  course.      To-night,  say." 

Nodding  to  himself,  Grayland  once  more  dis- 
appeared. 

"Thank  you."  By  his  voice,  he  seemed  content. 
"Some  tales  need  more  than  one  man  to  tell  'em." 
•  They  left  him  clipping  peacefully  behind  his 
tangle,  and  wandered  off  to  their  game.     It  was 


FERNSEED  167 

a  silent  but  a  cheerful  round  that  they  played, 
over  miles  of  clean-washed  turf  and  daisies  newly 
opened,  with  greens  heavy  and  cups  brimful  of 
water.  Though  lame,  slow,  and  unpractised, 
Laurence  won  hole  after  hole.  His  adversary 
took  a  thorough  beating,  administered  happily 
in  sunshine  to  the  tune  of  skylarks.  At  noon  they 
went  down  the  beach  and  swam  In  surf,  then  lying 
on  the  yellow  sand  ate  bread  and  butter,  dozed 
and  grew  sunburnt,  watched  the  gulls  hover  about 
the  peak  of  the  Devil's  Nose,  or  with  thoughts 
drawn  past  the  horizon  by  smoke  from  an  unseen 
ship,  bartered  yarns  of  outlandish  adventure.  By 
sunset  they  returned  home,  now  through  long- 
shadowed  fields,  now  along  some  back  yard  wall 
over  which  came  grunting  and  the  hot,  sour  smell 
of  pigs,  now  In  green  lanes  dazzled  with  gold. 

It  was  after  dinner,  by  candlelight,  that 
Laurence  repeated  his  words  of  yesterday  eve- 
ning. 

"About  George,  now.  Here's  the  thing  I  had 
to  show  you.    Found  it  stuck  away  In  a  dust-hole." 

He  handed  to  Leonard  a  miniature,  rimmed 
with  gilt,  and  set  in  a  square  green  velvet  frame 
or  plaque.  The  face  was  that  of  a  young  Vic- 
torian dandy,  high-colored,  handsome,  but  with 


i68  FERNSEED 

his  curly  black  hair  somewhat  too  romantic,  and 
his  look  too  dashing. 

"Why  it's  George!"  cried  the  visitor.  "No. 
Can't  be. — George  playing  the  fool  in  fancy 
dress?"       Laurence  wore  a  quizzical  smile. 

"George  without  the  brains.  Just  so,"  he 
agreed.  "Curious,  don't  you  think  ? — for  that  was 
my  father's  brother,  really.  His  elder  brother. 
The  family  runs  fair  and  black  by  starts.  He  was 
black,  you  see;  died  young,  cut  off  in  the  flower 
of  his  wild  oats;  fell  from  a  horse.  They  say 
*between  the  stirrup  and  the  ground,'  but  one  has 
uncharitable  doubts.  Not  quick  enough  to  seek 
pardon,  that  head." 

"Strange,"  said  Leonard.  "The  swordsman's 
portrait,  too.  Both  so  like  George  masquerading." 

He  gave  back  the  miniature.  Laurence  placed 
It  on  the  mantel. 

"This  poor  relic's  been  long  enough  in  disgrace. 
I  left  home  too  young  to  know.  But  our  fine 
gentleman  threw  himself  about  a  bit,  I  fancy. — 
Yes:  George " 

Their  conference  ended  abruptly. 

"Did  you  call?" 

They  turned  with  a  guilty  air.  George  had 
been  coming  downstairs,  and  paused,  with  his 
head  in  the  shadows  of  the  pointed  arch. 


XV. 


"Just  wondering  where  you'd  gone/'  said 
Laurence,  promptly.  ''Don't  be  so  damned  ac- 
tive.    Come  dawdle  with  us,  G.  G." 

For  a  time  after  George  had  obeyed,  and  sunk 
his  long  body  into  a  chair  between  them,  silence 
followed.  The  night  was  warm  as  summer. 
Through  open  windows  drifted  air  fragrant  with 
the  balm  of  all  the  country,  its  passage  unfelt, 
unknown  but  for  tremors  in  the  candle-shine  and 
weaving  departure  of  smoke  from  three  tobacco- 
pipes.  There  was  no  fire ;  but  the  men  sat  ranged, 
as  by  habit,  facing  the  andirons  and  the  black 
chimney-mouth. 

**Well,  brethren,"  Laurence  broke  out,  of  a 
sudden,  *'the  spirit  moves  me.  I  promised  you 
should  hear  an  apology." 

He  sank  back,  crossed  his  lame  leg  carefully 
over  the  other,  and  again  became  silent. 

"By  Jove,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  wondering  tone, 
"no  one   else  ever  heard  it  before  I      Not  all. 

169 


170  FERN    SEED 

Vd  forgotten  that.  The  story  of  a  bad  boy. 
Poor  little  devil,  off  in  the  past,  he  seems  another 
person.  This  be  none  of  I,  but  once  upon  a  time 
he  was. 

"My  governor  sent  me  to  our  usual  school,  a 
good  enough  one,  not  so  very  far  from  here,  as 
you  know.  I  was  a  very  shy,  bookish  lad,  the  last 
you'd  expect  to  find  making  trouble.  Never  can 
tell.  One  fine  spring  day,  much  like  the  present 
weather,  behold  this  child  dreaming  along  out  of 
bounds, — not  wilfully,  mark  you,  just  dreaming 
with  his  head  full  of  King  Arthur,  or  Leather- 
stocking,  or  Grettir  the  Strong.  All  at  once  I 
came  upon  an  old  woman  sitting  by  a  little  fire 
under  some  thorns.  I  see  her  now  as  a  dirty  and 
rather  silly  old  creature;  but  at  the  moment  she 
seemed  all  that  a  child  pictures  of  what  a  witch 
ought  to  be, — elf-locks,  and  wild  eyes,  and  skinny 
fingers.  You  know.  She  had  a  stone  jug  on  the 
grass  beside  her,  with  a  tin  cup  tied  to  its  ear. 
The  black-thorn,  or  may-tree — I  forget  which, 
but  it  was  covered  with  the  dead  bodies  of  young 
birds,  field  mice,  beetles,  humble-bees,  and  such, 
all  impaled  on  thorns,  and  every  mouse  pecked 
on  the  head,  bloody.  It  must  have  been  the 
shambles  of  a  butcher  bird,  a  shrike.  But  to  me  it 
seemed  the  deviPs  Christmas  tree.    The  old  worn- 


FERN    SEED  171 

an  sat  under  It  mumbling,  with  smoke  in  her  crazy 
eyes,  and  these  murdered  things  withering  round 
her  like  a — like  a  bad  halo.  As  If  she  were  wast- 
ing her  enemies  away  with  magic.  She  had  a  dead 
beetle  hanging  In  her  hair.  I  knew  she  was  a 
witch.  Jove,  she  was.  The  boy  guessed  right. 
So  far  as  one  or  two  men's  lives  went  afterward, 
she  was  a  Norn." 

George  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"When  you  caught  her,"  he  said,  "she'd  begun 
stuffing  hen's  feathers  Into  a  paper  bag  with  a 
hole  In  It."  , 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  Laurence  came 
bolt  upright,  bringing  his  feet  to  the  floor  with  a 
thump.  "Good  heavens,  man!  Do  I  talk  In  my 
sleep?  Or  have  you  second  sight?  How  did  you 
know?" 

He  leaned  forward,  staring. 

"It  was  revealed  to  me  In  a  dream,"  George 
answered,  bitterly.     "Go  on." 

But  the  narrative  had  met  a  check.  Laurence 
eyed  his  neighbor  with  astonishment  and  doubt. 
When  he  spoke  again,  his  manner  seemed  less 
free. 

"Why,  there's  not  much  more,"  he  declared. 
"The  old  woman  blandished  a  good  deal,  told 
some   long   rigmaroles,   uncorked   her  jug,    and 


172  FERN    SEED 

filled  the  tin  cup  for  me,  most  lovingly.  Don't 
know  how  you  guessed  those  feathers,  George, 
but  youVe  right.  She  was  cooking  a  hen  in  a 
ball  of  clay.  We  talked,  and  watched  the  process, 
and  I  emptied  her  cup  as  often  as  you  please. 
She  told  me  It  was  ginger-pop." 

George  nodded  mournfully. 

"Ay,"  said  he.  "A  hot  day  and  a  thirsty  school- 
boy." 

"Right  again.  It  was  very  hot,"  declared 
Laurence.  "The  boy  turned  up  at  school  blear- 
eyed  and  staggering,  drunk  as  a  hatter.  The  rule 
was  public  flogging  and  expulsion.  I  couldn't 
explain.     I  took  It." 

He  paused,  and  looked  slowly  about  the  room. 

"My  poor  old  governor  had  things  out  with 
me  right  where  we're  sitting,"  he  continued.  "You 
may  Imagine,  a  strict  father  with  what  was  to 
have  been  our  fine  young  Oxford  scholar,  parson, 
and  so  on.  I  couldn't  explain  to  him,  either:  too 
young,  and — and  bewildered.  His  face  was  like 
the  dead.  Most  of  that  boy  died  here,  too.  The 
rest  of  him  ran  away  and  took  more  whippings 
from  the  world.  Twenty  odd  years  of  them. 
Ever  since  I  came  home  last  week,  I've  seen  his 
ghost  haunting  those  books." 


FERN    SEED  173 

The  speaker  got  on  foot,  lighted  his  pipe,  and 
stood  glancing  down  at  Leonard. 

"Now  you  understand,"  he  added,  "why  I  went 
off  at  score  when  we  first  ran  across  each  other, 
and  you  mentioned  old  women  with  mead  by  the 
wayside." 

George,  polishing  briar  with  the  ball  of  his 
thumb,  spoke  as  though  to  himself. 

"She  always  laced  that  mead  something 
chronic.  Three  parts  brandy.  Mr.  Leonard 
knows,  or  ought  to.  It  was  the  same  old  woman 
and  the  same  old  mead."  He  looked  up  at  Lau- 
rence, his  eyes  burning  with  a  sombre  fire.  "You 
need  more  than  one  man  for  some  stories.  Too 
young  and  bewildered,  rot!  Your  boy  took  dis- 
grace, let  his  life  be  spoilt,  to  keep  his  word  with 
a  foolish  old  body  whoM  been  stealing  hens  and 
trespassing.  You  promised  not  to  tell  you'd  seen 
her.  You  never  did.  The  boy's  heart  may  have 
broke  in  this  room,  but  not  his  word." 

Again  Laurence  remained  staring  in  wonder. 

"How  on  earth !"  he  exclaimed. 

"She's  my  grandmother,"  said  George.  "Yes, 
old  Becky,  at  the  Ring  of  Bells  now.  'Twas 
grandson's  earnings  put  her  there." 

A  moth  was  fluttering  among  the  candles. 
George  rose,  caught  it  with  one  sweep  of  his 


174  FERN    SEED 

brown  hand,  and  passing  to  the  river  windows, 
threw  it  out  into  starlight.  He  returned  and  sat 
down. 

"When  I  spoke  of  her,"  began  Laurence.  He 
paused.  "If  anything  was  said  to  hurt  you,  I — 
well,  Tm  sorry." 

"You  said  no  more  than  plain  truth,"  George 
growled.  With  elbows  on  knees,  he  studied  the 
floor.  "She  was  what  God  made  her.  And  some 
help  from  mankind.  What's  past  is  done  with, 
and  can't  be  recalled.  Except  onions,  they  say. 
At  any  rate  speak  you  did,  so  I'd  better  keep  on. 

Amongst  the  wreckage  of  her  old  brain " 

Grayland  reached  out  to  place  his  pipe  on  the 
table,  then  hung  his  head  over  his  clasped  hands. 
"Well,  she  had  secrets.  Back  in  my  childhood 
she  used  to  prophesy:  when  a  man  should  come 
from  abroad  and  pass  through  the  Devil's  Nose 
against  the  sun,  why,  enemies  will  be  overthrown, 
and  things  made  clear,  and  good  fortune,  and  so 
on.  Moonshine.  But  the  first  part's  come  true. 
So  here  goes." 

George  struck  fist  into  palm  lightly  between 
his  knees,  blow  after  blow,  as  if  hammering  at  a 
thought.  His  bowed  figure  seemed  overcome  by 
sadness. 

"I  was  lying  under  the  shrike's  thorn,"  he  said, 


FERN    SEED  175 

"behind  it,  that  day  of  your  undoing.  No  far- 
ther than  from  here  to  the  andirons.  Had  I 
known  what  your  name  was,  likely  Vd  have  tried 
to  kill  you.  When  I  did  know  it,  years  afterward, 
I'd  learned  what  your  word  was  worth;  what  it 
cost  you.  Never  been  able  to  pay  that  back,  but 
Fve  tried  faithful. 

"This  is  all  in  the  family."  He  looked  up  with 
a  grave  smile,  which  had  gone  as  he  bent  his 
head  once  more.  "It  may  hurt  you.  It  hurts  me 
now. 

"That  other  boy  behind  the  thorn  was  older 
than  you.  His  troubles  begun  earlier.  He'd  run 
the  hedges  a  long  time,  a  whole  life  of  it,  begging, 
cheating,  after  selling  colored  whirligigs  or  paper 
flowers  as  a  babe.  People  would  ask  you  where 
you  lived,  meaning  kind  no  doubt.  I'd  look  up  at 
'em  like  a  wild  beast,  and  say  nothing,  or  else 
run.  I  was.  A  little  wild  beast,  afraid  all  day, 
awake  half  the  night,  hunger  pains  clawing  in 
my  belly.  The  only  thing  I  had  to  be  fond  of  was 
my  mother." 

George  stopped.    He  took  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"Maybe  those  feelings  come  stronger  when 
you're  a  little  wild  beast.  Maybe  not.  I  don't 
know.  But  she  was  my  shadow  of  a  rock  in  a 
weary  land.    It  ended  one  night  before  dark,  one 


176  FERN    SEED 

misty  night.  We  were  to  lie  in  a  bam,  not  a 
decent  barn  like  Dr.  Wolcot*s  that  he  let  Dick 
Stanley  sleep  in,  as  they  tell,  but  an  old  roost 
where  trampers  had  made  all  filthy,  a  habitation 
for  Zim  and  Jim  and  every  unclean  thing.  I  was 
five  or  six  years  old.  She'd  spoken  strange  to  me 
that  evening — so  fond  and  terrible  deep  and 
changeable,  I  cried  in  her  arms;  then  sent  me  off 
on  a  long  errand  that  came  to  naught,  foolish 
like. 

"I  got  back  through  the  roke,  and  went  indoors 
tired  and  hungry.  It  was  dark  in  there.  My 
mother  was  standing  in  the  midst  alone,  her  back 
toward  me.  I  spoke  to  her  about  the  errand  being 
no  good.  She  never  answered  or  moved,  so  I  went 
closer  and  spoke  again.  She  seemed  not  to  hear 
me.  That  wasn't  like  her,  and  she  stood  unusual 
tall  in  the  dark,  with  her  head  as  if  listening.  I 
touched  her.  Last  of  all  I  put  up  my  hand  and 
pulled  at  her  skirt,  like  a  child's  way  of  doing. 
Then  my  mother  turned.  There  was  light  enough 
to  see  her  face  looking  down  at  me,  and  I  wish 
there  hadn't  been." 

George  moved  his  hands  from  his  temples  to 
his  forehead. 

"She  turned,   and  she  kept  on  turning  right 


FERN    SEED  177 

past  me.  And  then  I  saw  that  her  feet  didn't  touch 
the  floor." 

He  remained  still  for  a  moment;  suddenly  un- 
covered his  face  by  dropping  his  hands  and  clasp- 
ing them  before  him;  but  regarded  neither  of  his 
companions. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  what  came  of  our  fine 
gentleman  who  threw  himself  about  a  bit. — I 
couldn't  help  overhearing  you.  Penalty  for  quick 
ears." 

With  another  sudden  movement,  George  left 
his  chair  and  drew  himself  erect;  still  caring  to 
see  nobody,  he  turned,  stepped  to  the  window  from 
which  he  had  thrown  the  moth,  and  leaned  there. 
Past  his  head  smoke  drifted  into  the  warm,  sweet- 
smelling  darkness.  Across  their  empty  fireplace 
the  two  younger  men  exchanged  looks,  without  a 
word,  but  asking  each  other  what  was  to  be  said 
or  done. 

It  was  Laurence  who  found  an  answer.  He 
went  limping  to  the  table,  and  with  unnecessary 
pains,  very  slowly,  mixed  three  great  night-cap 
drinks.  He  made  them  strong  and  dark,  holding 
up  each  tumbler  for  prolonged  inspection,  con- 
triving a  good  deal  of  clink  and  rattle.  Afterward 
he  stood  quite  still  and  let  more  time  go  by. 


178  FERN    SEED 

"We're  waiting  for  you,  George,"  he  called  at 
last,  In  a  matter-of-fact  tone.     "Here  you  are." 

Grayland  came  back  to  them,  quiet  and  com- 
posed. 

"I  always  knew  it  must  be  something  more 
than  friendship."  Laurence  held  out  a  tumbler 
in  each  hand,  and  when  these  two  were  taken, 
raised  the  third  before  him.  "Cousin  Leonard, 
and  Cousin  George,  I  wish  we  were  to  be  longer 
under  this  roof.  Here,  let's  all  stand  on  the 
hearth-stone. — That's  better.  How  many  years, 
do  you  suppose,  have  gone  by  since  three  of  us 
did  this  together?" 

With  his  glass,  he  beckoned  for  them  to  touch 
brims.  His  air  was  at  once  offhand  and  cere- 
monial. 

"Come,  all  the  family.     Here's  luck." 


XVI 

During  the  next  few  days,  the  three  men  went 
about  together  as  if  inseparable.  The  fine  weather 
continued.  They  shared  their  enjoyment  of  it, 
meeting  early  by  tacit  consent,  taking  long  ram- 
bles, bathing  in  the  river,  rowing  the  Daisy  down 
for  a  plunge  in  the  surf,  or  up  for  a  picnic  on 
some  tranquil  reach  where  nest-guarding  swans 
with  fiery  eyes  pursued  their  wake  and  hissed  at 
them;  and  coming  home  by  sunset  to  talks  that 
ended  only  with  late  bed-time. 

"Well,"  sighed  Leonard  one  evening,  "to- 
morrow I  must  go.     Really  must,  this  time." 

His  friends  both  turned  gloomy. 

"Why,  man,  youVe  just  come,"  retorted  Lau- 
rence.    "Is  it  growing  so  dull  for  you?" 

"No.  I  should  think  not,"  declared  the  visi- 
tor. "  *But  Scripture  says  an  ending  to  all  fine 
things  must  be.'  " 

"I  don't  care  a  button  what  Scripture  says." 
The  master  of  the  house  grew  peevish.     "You're 

179 


i8o  FERN    SEED 

not  treating  George  and  me  In  a  high-class  way 
at  all.  You're  only  being  polite.  Now  you  drop 
it.  In  Deportment  For  Dukes  it  is  clearly  stated: 
*At  a  Hint  from  the  Hostess,  the  Departure  oc- 
curs.' Then  and  not  till  then.  So  you  wait;  and 
you'll  wait  a  devilish  long  time,  my  boy. — That 
reminds  me.  To-morrow  my  sister's  coming  back. 
You  can't  run  away." 

From  behind  him,  George,  towering  in  the  back- 
ground, shot  a  volley  of  most  fiendish  leers.  They 
gave  all  warnings  that  a  human  face  could  con- 
vey, against  vinegar  ladles  who  bit  heads  off. 

"If  I  should  let  you  go  now,"  continued  Lau- 
rence, "why,  Rose  would  make  the  rest  of  my  life 
perfectly  unbearable.  You  can  stay,  can't  you? 
Good! — I've  hardly  seen  her  twice  in  years  my- 
self, till  the  other  day.  Brought  up  by  some  of 
her  father's  old  friends,  *of  the  tribe  of  Dan  and 
noli  me  tang  ere*  Time  to  see  what  frills  they 
have  put  into  her  head." 

Thus  it  happened  that  on  the  following  after- 
noon, upstairs,  Leonard  heard  a  crunch  of  wheels 
that  stopped  by  the  front  door,  and  women's  voices 
below.  He  felt  little  or  no  curiosity  toward  this 
Miss  Corsant  who  set  her  cousin  George's  teeth 
so  on  edge :  no  doubt  she  had  come  to  spoil  their 
harmony  in  bachelors'  hall:  but  perhaps  for  the 


FERN    SEED  i8i 

advantage  of  seeing  the  enemy  first,  he  went  to  a 
window  and  looked  out. 

The  impulse  had  come  too  late.  George  was 
bobbing  away  down  the  sunlit  drive,  In  a  basket 
phaeton  drawn  by  an  old  white  pony,  the  same 
that  he  had  taken  to  Peacock  for  shoeing  and 
led  Into  the  surf.  Whatever  passengers  Grayland 
had  brought  were  now  indoors. 

*'A11  right,"  thought  the  young  man.  "Let  her 
snap.*' 

From  the  stairhead  came  a  rustle  of  skirts.  He 
turned.  A  very  neat  lady's  maid,  with  gray  hair 
and  a  sensible,  cheerful  face,  passed  by  Into  a 
corridor  as  If  she  had  always  been  passing,  knew 
her  way,  and  liked  it. 

"That  woman's  head  never  was  bitten  off,"  he 
considered,  as  he  went  down.  "George's  bugbear 
can't  be  so  frightful." 

Coming  through  the  arch,  round  a  corner,  he 
suddenly  had  his  advantage  after  all,  and  saw 
the  enemy  first.  Under  the  portrait  of  the  young 
horseman,  and  the  blades,  a  girl  sat  leaning  back- 
ward, her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  resting,  as  if 
alone  with  some  thought  which  was  good  but 
rather  grave  company.  Her  face,  clear  brown 
tinged  with  delicate  red,  might  have  been  that  of 
a    sister   to   the   horseman,    but   lacked   his   im« 


i82  FERN    SEED 

patience;  her  dark  eyes  were  George's  without 
the  guile.  So  much  Leonard  saw  before  discov- 
ering to  his  great  surprise  and  even  greater  delight, 
that  she  was  the  girl  of  the  blue-bell  grove  who 
had  sat  with  him  in  the  rain. 

The  sound  of  his  footsteps  roused  her.  She 
turned,  saw  him,  and  leaving  her  chair,  came  for- 
ward. 

"How  do  you  do?  I  am  Laurence's  sister 
Rose."  As  they  met  she  added,  in  a  very  pretty 
confusion :  *'Thank  you  for  your  oilskin.  I  have 
brought  it,  but  should  have  sent  It  before    ..." 

"And  thank  you  for  the  receipt  of  fern  seed," 
he  broke  In.  "Your  charm  worked.  If  you  re- 
member it,  under  your  namesake  the  boat?" 

Her  confusion  deepened,  and  with  It  her  color. 

"Have  you  forgiven  me  for  teasing  you?"  she 
asked.    "Fm  still  ashamed.    But  it  was  fun." 

That  downward  laughter  not  quite  controlled 
came  and  went  in  her  eyes.  He  liked  It  better 
than  ever;  still  better  when  It  got  the  mastery 
and  looked  up  at  him  direct. 

"I  shall  kill  George,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

"Oh — for  things  he  said;  and  things  he  didn't 
say." 

"What  things?     Tell  me  both  kinds."     She 


FERNSEED  183 

read  his  face.  "About  me? — Dear  old  George. 
He's  like  a  father  and  a  brother  and  a  naughty 
boy  to  take  care  of,  all  by  turns  and  at  once." 

Somehow  they  fell  not  only  Into  talk  but  into 
step  together,  walking  up  and  down  the  long  room 
as  If  they  had  met  for  that  purpose,  or  it  had  been 
their  custom.  They  went  slowly,  but  found  much 
to  say  in  haste.  While  they  did  so,  Leonard  be- 
came haunted  with  a  sense  that  the  old  house 
had  come  to  life:  this  girl  Rose  Corsant  wore 
plain,  quiet  gray,  yet  while  she  turned  and  re- 
turned beside  him,  he  could  have  thought  her  pass- 
age made  a  shining  along  the  time-blackened  oak, 
and  cast  light  rather  than  shadow.  Far  from 
being  spoiled,  the  place  had  got  what  it  always 
wanted. 

Once  or  twice  Rose  came  to  a  halt,  and  looked 
about  her,  gravely,  as  she  had  looked  when  sitting 
under  the  picture. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think,"  she  said,  "that  Laurence 
will  have  to  sell  this.  Poor  boy.  It  makes  rather 
a  sad  home-coming."  She  started  on  again. 
"What  a  pity! — But  we  must  enjoy  it  all  we  can 
while  we  may." 

Leonard  often  recalled  this  saying  of  hers;  for 
afterward,  as  days  passed  and  household  ac- 
quaintance grew,  he  was  with  her  constantly  under 


i84  FERN    SEED 

one  roof  or  outdoors,  and  never  again  saw  her 
dispirited.  Rose  followed  her  own  precept  ad- 
mirably. 

"Hanged  If  I  know  how  we  got  on  without 
her,"  grumbled  George  one  evening.  "Worth  a 
dozen  of  us.     Hear  her." 

The  men  surrounded  their  hearth  as  usual  by 
candle-light.  She  was  moving  somewhere  above, 
humming,  with  little  outbreaks  of  clear  melody: 

"  There  were  three  gipsies  a'come  to  my  door, 
And  downstairs  ran  this  a-lady  oh! 
One  sang  high,  and  the  other  sang  low, 
And  the  other  sang  bonny,  bonny  Biscay,  O !'  " 

George  hearkened,  his  brown  face  lifted  some- 
what toward  the  sound.  It  was  no  secret  that 
he  worshipped  her.  He  had  tried  at  first  to  hold 
aloof;  but  her  brother  would  have  none  of  that, 
and  had  kept  him  In  the  circle. 

"  Then  she  pulled  off  her  silk-finished  gown  .  .  . ' " 

The  singer,  in  white,  came  running  down 
through  the  arch,  floating  like  a  feather  on  air 
and  gay  as  the  lady  of  her  ballad. 

"To  this  day  youVe  not  told  me  how  the  fight 
went."    Her  eyes  were  black  stars.    In  her  hand 


FERN    SEED  185 

was  George's  bloated  umbrella,  which  gave  an 
effect  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast.  'Tou  are  all  too 
lazy  to  show  me." 

A  moment  later  she  had  "them  dispersed  about 
the  room,  three  grown  men  playing  like  children. 
George  shrank  into  himself  by  the  door,  enacted 
Kamsa  the  Locust  hideously — a  long-legged 
chlmasra  trying  to  be  fat — and  croaked  their  stage 
directions.  Laurence  caught  down  the  naked 
sword.  Leonard  received  her  umbrella  with  a 
bow,  performed  the  grand  salute,  and  bounced 
on  guard  like  a  rubber  ball.  They  turned  the 
story  of  that  combat  into  a  romp  that  left  all  four 
of  them  laughing. 

As  they  came  to  order,  Leonard  suddenly 
raised  his  hand. 

"Wait !"    He  warned  them.    *'It's  here  again.*' 

They  listened.  From  the  corner  behind  him 
came  a  sigh  and  a  flutter,  a  movement  of  some- 
thing without  body  or  name. 

"The  family  spectre,"  said  Laurence.  "IVe 
heard  it  two  or  three  times.  Dust  falling  behind 
the  wainscot,  probably.  I'm  afraid  it  means  dry- 
rot  in  these  old  timbers." 

Rose  disagreed. 

"No,  a  real  ghost,"  she  said.  "Not  yet  laid. 
Hark!" 


i86  FERN    SEED 

The  stir  had  passed,  however,  and  did  not 
come  again.  They  presently  forgot  it.  Rose 
had  other  questions  In  mind.  She  stood  on  tiptoe, 
examining  the  carven  lump  of  the  Devil's  Nostrils. 

"How  elvish  this  old  block  of  wood  can  look  at 
night."  She  appealed  to  Leonard.  "Doesn't  it 
creep  and  crawl? — By  the  way,  how  did  you  come 
to  think  of  swimming  through  the  rock?  That 
morning  you  met  George?" 

"My  father,"  explained  the  young  man,  "al- 
ways said  we  must  do  it,  one  day.  An  old  story 
between  us.  He  couldn't  just  remember  what, 
and  I  never  knew.  Something.  We  were  to  go 
through  the  rock  a  certain  fashion." 

George,  watching  them  paternally,  growled  the 
single  word: 

"WIthershins." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  asked  Rose.  "You 
read  it  in  witchcraft." 

Leonard  turned  toward  the  carving  and  reached 
up. 

"I  swam  out  like  this,  you  see."  He  put  his 
forefinger  into  the  left  nostril.  "Why!  They're 
real  holes.  Deep.  Clear  through.  Thought  It 
was  only  scooped. — I  swam  out  here."  He 
crooked  his  finger  round  behind  toward  the  other 


FERNSEED  187 

nostril.  "And  swam  in  again  here,  this  second 
hole.     Can't  quite  poke  it." 

George  corrected  him. 

* 'Wrong  way.    That's  how  you  pass  a  bottle." 

Leonard  blew  dust  from  his  finger,  and  nodded. 

*'This  way,  then."  He  tried  the  right  nostril. 
"Hallo!"  said  he  in  dismay,  and  withdrew  his 
hand.      "IVe  broken  something." 

They  all  heard  a  rusty  creak,  then  saw  the 
oaken  septum  between  the  nostrils  drop  forward 
and  stand  out  from  the  wall  like  a  peg.  There 
followed  a  groan  or  long-drawn  shuddering  gulp 
as  from  old  bellows. 

Leonard  stood  like  a  truant  caught  in  mischief; 
Rose  and  her  brother  came  to  him  quickly;  but 
it  was  George  who  first  acted  upon  the  fact,  and 
brought  one  of  the  candlesticks.  His  face  re- 
mained Impassive,  but  his  eyes  glittered. 

"Let  her,"  he  said,  pointing.  "The  youngest, 
for  luck.    And  the  lady." 

They  saw  what  he  meant.  The  panel  under  the 
carving  had  sprung  back,  sunken  half  an  inch  or 
so  between  its  neighbors.  George,  with  the  flat  of 
his  hand,  pressed  it  farther  inward. 

"Now  try." 

A  crack  had  appeared.  Rose,  rather  timidly, 
put  her  slender  brown  finger-tips  into  this,   and 


i88  FERN     SEED 

gave  a  sidelong  push.  The  smooth  oak  glided 
away  to  the  right,  disappeared;  a  thin  cloud  of 
dust  flew  out  in  her  face;  before  them  stood  a 
shallow  recess  backed  with  greenish  tatters  of  mil- 
dewed leather  and  tails  of  curled  hair. 

"Padded  so  as  not  to  give  hollow/*  said  George. 
"Here's  your  ghost:  any  draught  would  set  those 
rags  chafing."  He  spoke  eagerly.  "Try  the  gob 
of  verdigris.  Below,  to  your  hand.  Must  be  a 
brass  door  catch.    Try  it.'* 

Rose,  her  black  eyes  sparkling  like  his  own, 
obeyed  him.  The  padded  leather  swung  inward 
on  squealing  hinges,  and  left  open  into  darkness 
a  narrow  doorway  from  which  two  or  three  stone 
steps  led  downward. 

"Bowels  of  the  earth,"  declared  George.  "Let 
me  test  the  air. — Some  rumor  of  this  crept  into 
grandmother's  feeble  old  brain,  I  dare  say." 

He  slipped  through  the  opening  shoulder-first, 
crouched  and  went  down,  holding  the  branched 
candles  knee-high  before  him. 

"They  bum  sweet."  His  voice  rang  in  some 
empty  confinement.  "All  right.  Come  along,  but 
mind  your  heads." 

They  trooped  down  after  him,  into  a  room  nine 
or  ten  feet  square,  a  cell  with  roof,  walls,  and 
floor  of  solid  stone.     Dust  lay  thick  on  the  floor. 


FERN    SEED  189 

in  the  centre  of  which,  by  a  table  also  covered  with 
dust,  were  two  narrow  high-backed  old  chairs,  one 
upright,  one  overthrown. 

"Under  the  garden  rock  that  a  piece  of  the 
house  juts  into,  we  are.**  George*s  head  brushed 
the  ceiling  as  he  moved  about,  explored  all  cor- 
ners, and  came  back  to  set  his  candles  on  the  dusty 
board.  "Clever  conniving.  Naught  but  the  one 
door,  though  must  be  tirly-whirly  holes  to  keep 
the  air  so  fresh.'* 

The  strangeness  of  this  hidden  room  no  more 
touched  him  than  if  he  had  walked  into  a  shop  or 
a  kitchen.  But  Rose,  her  brother,  and  Leonard 
saw  one  another  somewhat  daunted,  and  required 
time  to  be  themselves  again.  On  the  table  stood 
a  platter  with  clots  and  crumbling  Bones  in  it  un- 
der the  powder  of  years,  two  plates,  two  goblets, 
all  these  black  as  lead;  a  pair  of  pistols  and  a 
sword  gone  to  rust;  a  brown  feather  which,  as 
Rose  lifted  it,  shed  its  color  and  became  a  goose- 
quill  pen;  a  small  ink-horn,  and  the  rags  of  what 
had  been  a  man's  hat.  Laurence  took  up  one  of 
the  black  goblets,  mechanically,  with  a  dreaming 
air,  and  set  it  down.  By  chance  it  struck  a  black 
plate,  and  the  intruders  were  surprised  when  they 
heard  these  dead  utensils  give  out  a  living  chink 
of  silver. 


I90  FERNSEED 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  George?"  asked 
Laurence. 

"Two  men  never  eat  their  breakfast,"  replied 
Grayland  promptly.  **War  time,  it's  like.  They 
cleared  out  so  quick,  one  of  them  upset  his  chair, 
ril  bet  you" — he  turned  to  Leonard — "your  great 
something  dad  galloped  off  without  hat  or  weap- 
ons down  to  his  ship.  Westward  ho  for  your  life. 
O*  course  that's  only  my  guess.  Maybe  he  went 
back  to  war." 

Leonard  gave  a  nod. 

"Maybe  so,"  he  agreed.  "It  would  bear  out 
a  yarn  father  used  to  tell." 

Laurence,  dreaming  still  or  thinking,  did  not 
seem  to  hear.  He  raised  the  black  platter  which 
by-gone  men  had  left  full  of  bones  and  powder. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "here's  what  they  were  writ- 
ing with  your  quill,  Rose." 

Where  the  dish  left  Its  mark,  an  oval  of  pol- 
ished wood  drawn  with  exact  edge  amid  the  dust, 
lay  a  folded  sheet  of  manuscript  fresh  and  white 
as  though  tucked  underneath  yesterday.  Laurence 
took  this  and  carefully  opened  it. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  called  George. 

He  skipped  upstairs  into  the  house,  dropped 
down  again  with  hearth-broom,  put  the  fallen  chair 
on  its  legs,  and  brushed  both  seats  clean. 


FERN    SEED  191 

"There  you  are." 

Brother  and  sister  took  their  places  at  table. 
^'Seventeenth  century  hand,  I  think/'  said  Lau- 
rence, and  began  to  read  aloud : 

"  *I,  Leonard  Corsant,  being  in  the  twenty-eighth 
year  of  my  age,  and  but  newly  returned  from  this 
damnable  slaughter  of  our  kindred,  and  friends  upon 
both  sides  whom  I  saw  fallen,  as  chiefly  amongst  them 
at  Chalgrove  field  John  Hampden  receiving  his  death 
by  the  shattering  his  hand  by  the  burst  of  his  new 
pistol  .    .    .  '" 

The  reader  looked  up. 

"That's  of  interest,"  he  remarked,  "for  Clar- 
endon says  he  got  hit  by  a  brace  of  slugs  in  the 
shoulder. — George  is  right.  It  was  war  time,  and 
your  great  something  grandfather  telling  his 
troubles.    He  flounders  a  little  with  the  pen. 

"*and  being  myself  wounded,  in  my  concealment 
do  intend  this  memorial  .    .   .  "* 

Again  Laurence  paused. 

"And  that's  all,"  he  said.  "Far  as  the  old  chap 
ever  carried  with  his  participial  history.  Rough 
sketch,  perhaps.  A  deal  scratched  out,  and  then 
lines  ruled  across  the  page. — Eh?  What  comes 
here  below?" 


192  FERN    SEED 

He  read  no  more  aloud,  but  scanned  the  bottom 
of  the  sheet. 

"Here's  an  agreement,  drawn  up  on  this  table, 
I  fancy,  between  the  same  writer  and  his  younger 
brother  Laurence.    The  wheel  of  time?" 

Rose  pushed  back  her  chair  and  stood  up,  beck- 
oning Leonard  with  a  smile. 

"You  sit  with  him,"  she  said.  "It's  more  fit- 
ting, you  and  he,  after  those  two.  Don't  you 
think?" 

She  obliged  him  to  take  her  place,  where  dust 
had  fallen,  moth  corrupted,  and  steel  decayed, 
since  two  men  of  their  name  had  faced  each  other 
so. 

Laurence  read  on  to  himself. 

"Fm  no  lawyer,"  he  proclaimed  suddenly.  "But 
this  would  seem  to  promise  fair  material  for  a 
pretty  suit.  Worth  looking  into.  It's  a  plain 
contract.  Your  forefather  who  went  back  to  war 
without  his  hat  or  breakfast,  owned  this  house 
and  land.  Mine,  the  younger,  stayed  at  home  to 
hold  it,  *by  policy  and  such  devices  as  he  may 
in  honor' — those  are  their  words — ^till  the  storm 
blew  past.  May  be  valueless  now.  All  the  same, 
by  right  you  should  keep  this."  He  handed  it 
across.  "They  drew  their  terms  up  in  a  rush,  on 
waste  paper  from  a  memoir  that  never  got  writ- 


FERN    SEED  193 

ten.  But  it*s  clear,  signed  by  Leonard  and  Lau- 
rence Corsant,  witnessed  by  one  Rich.  Hooper 
and  one  Gabriel  Grayland. — Always  one  of  you 
handy  round  the  house,  George." 

The  paper,  though  spotted  by  damp,  felt  al- 
most new  In  Leonard's  hands.  He  looked  upon 
it  not  without  emotion. 

"Which  Is  the  part,"  he  asked,  "that  you  think 
— er — pertains  to  me?" 

Laurence  leaned  over  the  black  dishes,  and 
pointed. 

"There.  At  the  foot.  Beginning — *For  the 
guidance  of  our  children,  to  preserve' — and  so 
on." 

Leonard,  taking  his  turn,  read  to  the  bottom  of 
the  page  with  care. 

"They  were  long-headed,  but  fond  of  each 
other."  He  glanced  from  his  table  companion  to 
George  and  Rose.  "This  reminds  me  of  what 
Mr.  Tony  Weller  said  about  his  wife's  will.  As 
it's  all  right  and  satisfactory,  and  we're  the  only 
parties  Interested,  we  may  as  well  put  this  bit 
comfortably " 

He  thrust  the  end  of  it  into  the  candles.  It 
flared. 

"You  madman  I"  cried  Laurence,  and  snatched 


194  FERN    SEED 

the  blazing  sheet  from  him.  "What  right  had 
you?" 

Half  the  paper  was  burnt  away,  the  offending 
lower  half. 

"You  saved  enough  for  a  relic,"  said  Leonard 
calmly.  "To  keep  with  George's  umbrella  In  the 
archives.  My  name's  not  Tichbourne,  you  know. 
I'm  just  the  American  cousin.  It  was  nothing  but 
an  old  scribble,  outlawed  years  ago." 


XVII 

One  evening  a  week  later,  George  was  busy 
outside  the  front  door.  An  upstart  young  elm, 
pushing  its  own  affair  in  the  absence  of  mankind, 
had  spoiled  a  flower  bed  and  darkened  a  dining- 
room  window.  George  had  felled  it,  dragged  it 
bodily  by  main  strength  into  the  driveway,  and 
now  bent  down  to  lop  the  branches.  He  was 
working  at  great  speed,  finishing  Eis  job  before 
the  dusk  thickened  into  darkness.  Barn-swallows 
darted  over  the  garden  leaves,  and  slewed  off  in 
frightened  zigzags  at  every  blow  of  his  axe. 

Leonard  stood  near  him,  talking  with  lowered 
voice.  It  seemed  natural  for  the  pair  of  them 
to  conspire  again. 

"He  mustn't  sell  this."  The  younger  man's 
gaze  roved  from  house  to  garden.    "It's  a  crime." 

George  nodded,  and  kicked  away  a  bough. 

"Can't  be  helped."  He  spoke  sadly.  "I'd 
hate  to  see  her  go,  his  sister.    But  Laurence — Oh, 

195 


196  FERN    SEED 

well,  let*s  cheat  ourselves  by  thinking  he*d  never 
stand  the  climate.  In  winter  there's  only  two 
places  in  England  fit  for  a  man  to  be — In  bed,  or 
on  the  back  of  a  good  horse.  Leave  It  at  that, 
for  comfort.     Pretend  he  was  ordered  south." 

Leonard  remained  thoughtful  and  silent. 

"Laurence  would  never  accept  It  from  me,"  he 
blurted.  "But  If  you  bought  the  place  and  gave  It 
back  to  him,  George " 

Grayland  looked  up  swiftly. 

"Where'd  I  get  the  money?"  he  retorted. 
"Like  a  shot  I  would.  But  he  and  I  are  a  pair 
of  rolling  stones.    Where  would  it  come  from?" 

He  went  on  lopping.  The  muscles  In  his  hard 
brown  forearms  played  like  rods.  His  axe,  the 
same  that  once  had  a  purple  stain  on  its  edge, 
weighed  some  four  pounds,  but  he  swung  It  In  one 
hand  like  a  hatchet,  and  cut  off  a  limb  clean  at 
each  blow. 

In  two  words  Leonard  unfolded  a  project  that 
had  kept  him  awake  nights. 

"From  me." 

George  pierced  him  with  a  straight  glance  to 
ask  if  he  were  trying  some  bad  joke. 

"No,  I  mean  it."  Leonard's  face  grew  red,  his 
tongue    slipped   and   stammered.      "You    know, 


FERN    SEED  197 

George — the  truth  is — ^you  know,  Pm  richer  than 
sin.  Rich  as  a  Parsee.  Rich  as  a  Bagdad  Jew. 
— Pll  be  gone,  you  see.    Not  a  soul  would  know." 

Grayland,  poising  his  axe,  accepted  this  truth 
at  once,  calmly. 

*Tou  never  acted  purse-proud." 

**Don't  know  about  that.  Dad  always  told  me 
not  to  spend  much  on  myself,"  said  Leonard. 
"Wish  you'd  known  my  father,  George.  You 
make  me  think  of  him  so  often. — ^You  couldn't 
help  wanting  to  try  to  do  whatever  father  told 
you." 

The  workman  straightened  himself,  knee-deep 
among  leaves.  He  smiled,  and  answered  with  a 
kind  of  envy. 

"The  boy's  not  dead  in  you  by  a  long  chalk. 
You're  young  in  the  world."  Suddenly  he  raised 
his  voice.  "No.  Don't  agree  with  you.  The 
axe  is  a  pretty  tool  in  good  hands,  but  the  broad- 
axe  beats  it  for  cleverness,  and  the  adze  calls  out 
genius.    Now  I  remember  an  old  shipwright " 

Leonard,  staring  at  this  vagary,  heard  next 
moment  what  George's  ears  had  caught  a  long  way 
off.  It  was  the  footsteps  of  Rose  Corsant.  She 
came  out  at  the  front  door. 

"What  are  you  two  plotting  now  ?"    She  called, 


198  FERN    SEED 

and  passed  on  toward  the  corner  rock.     "Mis- 
chlef?'' 

They  watched  her  moving  away  lightly  through 
the  green  dusk,  humming: 

"  *0,  what  care  I  for  my  wedded  lord, 
What  care  I  for  my  money,  O  ?' " 

When  she  disappeared  behind  shrubbery,  Gray- 
land  laughed. 

"Hear  that?  A  reckless  tribe  you  are.  My 
kind  do  come  handy  about  this  house.  Could 
you  trust  me  proxy  with  such  a  pot?  I  stole  be- 
fore you  was  born,  dear  lad.  I  might  shoot  the 
moon,  or  hold  fast  to  what  I  collared.^' 

Leonard  smiled  in  his  turn. 

"We'll  risk  that." 

"Right  ho.  We'll  risk  it."  Grayland  bent 
once  more,  and  chopped.  "Now  run  play.  Your 
Uncle  George  is  busy,  and  the  daylight's  nigh 
gone."  For  an  instant  he  rose,  fondling  his  axe 
and  grinning  in  the  dusk.  "Only,  there's  a  condi- 
tion. No  mortal  hand  but  mine  shall  ring  those 
bells  at  your  wedding.  I'm  the  boy  to  make  old 
Gabriel  sing  tenor." 

Leonard,  who  had  begun  moving  away,  stopped 
and  regarded  him  with  horror. 

"What!    What's  this,  man  alive?" 


FERN    SEED  199 

The  man  alive  shot  him,  cornerwise,  one  of 
those  black  arrows  of  wickedness. 

*'Don't  forget,  when  time  comes,"  said  George. 
"It  was  revealed  to  me  In  a  dream." 


THE  END 


v.-  ,/ 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFOKNIA  LIBEAKY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
ejcpiration  of  loan  period. 


t)EC  14  I9tf 

r,:e  6  1922 

MAR  i7197? 
APR  8  1922 


f^r^^r-     1  >- 


.■;« 


ftB    4    '^^•i"J> 


OCT  7 


1940IVL 


lOJulSlU': 


REC'D  LD 

APR    51962 


20m-ll,'20 


'  ^131 C 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAIJFORNIA  UBRARY 


